


Split Disposition

by LadyThornback



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Apocalypse, Assassin - Freeform, Attraction, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Contracts, Crepes, Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Dancing and Singing, Darkness, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Hamlet - Freeform, Jealousy, Loneliness, Love Confessions, Love Triangles, Magic, Motorbike, Non-Linear Narrative, Pacts, Pet Names, Possible Character Death, Sarcasm, Scars, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Shadow - Freeform, Shapeshifting, Teasing, Theatre, missing memories, red wine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-02-24 19:02:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 31,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22002913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyThornback/pseuds/LadyThornback
Summary: The banshee-like wail draws her back into the fray, the smell of blood heavy in the air. She would be the perfect weapon for the apocalypse, if only the stupid humans knew it was coming. With a contract etched and pulsating on her left forearm, she stalks her prey silently in shadow, unknowing her targets will soon discover her.
Relationships: Aziraphale (Good Omens)/Original Female Character(s), Crowley/Original Female Character(s) (Good Omens)
Kudos: 8





	1. Prologue

_What's my target?_ The cloaked figure mumbled in monotone as they stepped out onto the scalding hot desert sand. A bare left arm slid out from the confines of material. It was thin and toned, obviously female, the gold tips of her slightly clawed black fingernails glistening in the unfiltered sunlight. The mysterious woman read her inner forearm, scars of words in her native tongue still pink. 

[Translated]

‘Time/Place: The Beginning.

Target: You'll know.’

It had appeared the day she escaped her captors. Not her first set, but certainly the last. Fractures of shattered memories flash through her mind in quick succession. Like a mirror that had been broken, the shards varied in size, and she could not recall anything that had happened prior to her torture - as if that itself is what created her.

She began to withdraw her arm until she felt a burning sensation under where her already unhealable scars lay. Her dim expressionless eyes scan her arm once more, minute words beginning to appear as if by magic, burning into her pale white flesh.

‘life-changing experience.’

Clearly she was in the correct desolate place. She had been given a contract by an unknown entity, and it wanted to add something extra. Throughout time she had been given covenants, generally in the form of parchment, never via invisible scarification. Obviously this Being wanted her undivided attention.

Movement and flame flickered ahead of her in the seemingly never-ending sand dunes. Three humans and an animal. One male, flaming sword in hand, protecting pregnant female partner. Animal, lion, male. Not her targets. Although she _should_ kill the humans to stop them breeding into the vile ones she had known.

She leaned upon the sandstone wall and breathed in the arid air. She hadn't ever had to _wait_ before, then again, this wasn't a normal pact, and she wasn't a normal assassin. She hadn't been summoned, only ‘asked’. And the employer hadn't advised whether it was actually a hit or the method they preferred. Was it dealer’s choice? Or just a reconnaissance mission? And what was with the message? Although unpleasant, the stranger paid the weather no heed, even when a small breeze began to blow. The bottom of the black cloak fluttered, it's tattered and slightly burnt edges exposing glimpses of bare legs.

She closed her eyes and focused intently, summoning the fragments of memories to the surface, something she did often when not tasked. Although somewhat fuzzy, she was back there again, the cold iron from the shackles that tightly bound her wrists and ankles caused her to shiver as she stared at the glyphs that were carved into them to keep her weak. The mumbled chanting that echoed around the chamber was clear, yet she couldn't make out any of the words, even if they _were_ spoken in Latin. She was fluent in all known languages, and some which were not, so clearly this wasn't the cause of the issue. She paused briefly, knowing what was next. The chill from her nightmarish world enveloped her, ignoring the heat from the reality of where her physical form actually was. She regained her slight slip in composure and continued, recalling the small animal skull they produced and the immediate white-hot pain that filled her very being, as if she was being torn asunder. Her head and heart throbbed in rhythm as she lay incapacitated on the stone slab, her tonal hair changing to the colour of a never-ending abyss. Her memories sharpen upon hearing the unforgettable inhuman screech from the item, filling her ears as they blew it like a dog whistle and she were the dog in training. How could she forget it when its sound was that of the scream she released when they bound her twisted spirit and left her but an apathetic shell, a vessel of negative human emotions. Those in the room grin triumphantly. She was now a weapon. The perfect assassin, the monster in the dark, the bogeyman… _their pet._ And this item, this whistle, is a Din Banal'ras (Shadow of Death) Summoner. It's what calls her, regardless of timeline or realm, and forces her into a frenzy that can only be sated by killing all that stand before her in one glorious bloodbath. Whether it be foe… or friend. Not all beings can be bound so easily they had found out, little too late. It was a whistle to call her, not a leash, so it was only natural she'd repay them in kind. It was also the only thing that had the power to kill her, but only if the wielder had certain prerequisites which no mortal man held. Why make it easy for someone to destroy your possession?

Once she had fled her cage, her first order of business was to obliterate all Din Banal'ras items. As far as she was aware, she had succeeded and hopefully her legend and myth died with their disappearance.

There were very vague memories there of her being an alchemist, a medic, a healer, a daughter of nature, but whenever she tried to grasp them, they vanished.

“Didn't you used to have a flaming sword?”

A voice from above immediately draws her attention. How did she not notice their presence sooner?

“Yeah, you did. It was flaming like anything.”

“I gave it away!”

Only two targets? Too easy.

Straightening her posture and peeking upward, she spied the robed humanoids. The sun flared in warning, hiding their faces from view. Was this a game of blind chess? Although only managing a glimpse of their silhouettes backlit by the blaring sun, she did however notice the large wings protruding from their respective backs. She rubbed her chin thoughtfully as a sense of familiarity washed over her. Although she could not recall, she was _sure_ she had encountered angels in a previous incantation, yet they were nothing like the beings that stood flat footed above her. Maybe this _would_ be a challenge. She hadn't had the pleasure of corrupting or destroying their kind before.

The banshee-like wail interrupts her musings and her natural yet unusual heightened senses dim. The sound in her head steadily grows in pitch as someone blows the whistle harder.

_No!_

Her eyes cloud as she tries to fight, grasping her ever sinking consciousness, focusing on the rumble of thunder in the distance and the crack of lightning lighting the now clouded sky above and not on the sound that attempted to drag her onto a battlefield once more.

_No, please! Not again!_

The only thing in all of creation that she was afraid of, and clearly she had missed one. Feeling her pupils dilate, she knows what is coming next, the unholy surge of blood lust. She prayed to any and all deities to help her, or at least be summoned by a human too stupid to realise what they had done. They were her favourite. 

The gateway opened beneath her, turning the once solid ground to liquid. The shadows clung to her skin like inky black tentacles as they pulled her down, dragging her into the abyss. She had been slurped into the void between time and space, seconds before the first raindrops hit the hot desert sand.


	2. High Perception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She had been upon many battlefields, but none she considered this terrible. The sickening sweet scent of flying cakes and pastries waft over the large grounds, much like the shrieking of children.

A cherry red motorcycle skid to a stop beside a beautiful black Bentley. The black leather clad rider dismounted, running a gloved hand carefully over the bonnet of the car. Although parked and off, it shuddered slightly in response. Her attention now was focused on the large mansion towering above her. Her targets were obviously here – somewhere – but where? And how would she infiltrate this abode without looking suspicious?

“Ahem."

Someone from beyond the now open doors cleared their throat.

“I assume you are the replacement waitress? You're late. Remove that helmet and follow me.”

Well, that was somewhat a letdown _._ She had been looking forward to implement number 64 of the interesting ways a humanoid entered a house uninvited. It's not breaking and entering if you don't break something _and_ _then_ enter something. Entering is just entering.

The formally dressed man tapped his foot impatiently as he began to head back inside assuming, yet not overly caring, if she was following.

“This way, madam.”

The newly polished marble floor gleamed and sparkled, as the overly large and empty foyer echoed only the man's footsteps.

After walking the length of the extravagant home, it opened out to an even larger and perfectly manicured garden. Clearly this was some kind of birthday party for a child she noted, the many tiered cake, balloons, and games a dead giveaway, as was the giant topiary carved into a grandiose number eleven. She raised an eyebrow.

“Who might you be?” A woman questioned whilst eyeing the stranger’s outfit, a look of disgust clearly visible as she tried to peer into the visors dark tinting.

“She is the replacement ma'am.” The man stated before quickly disappearing into the white marquee.

The woman clicked her tongue in annoyance and pointed a finger toward a room with a door leading outward, unattached from the main house. “Uniforms are in there, and I better be correct in assuming you will remove that helmet and that hideous tattered scarf.”

Well, she wasn't planning on it, but it did seem a bit inconspicuous. The ‘scarf' itself was actually her cloak wrapped in an elaborate fashion, she concluded fairly early in obtaining her vehicle that it is quite difficult riding whilst wearing one.

The helmet bobbed.

With the affirming motion, the woman turned and walked off, cursing under her breath about her husband not being there for his child.

The rider stepped into the small room and inspected the white uniform on the hanger. Less than a second later, her outfit had changed yet helmet still firmly attached to her head. Luckily for her, the shirt was long sleeved. She stared at her reflection in one of the many tall mirrors as she unbuckled her headwear and yanked it off with a small tug. Her raven black hair fell like an obsidian waterfall, framing her smooth and intensely beautiful alabaster face. She sighed as she studied her features. She had always _tried_ to live in the background and in the shadows just out of sight, stalking her prey like a panther in a dense forest when the night was its darkest. Sometimes, yet very rarely, she had wished the full moon would slightly peek out of the clouds and illuminate her to alert her quarry, just to make things more interesting. It never did. Even when she was forced into an unassuming role in a social situation that surrounded them, much like now, she always blended in seamlessly. That itself defied reality but just lay testimony to her talents – which she had many of. This current existence was a lonely and somewhat confusing one, but at least she was free. She rubbed her left arm lightly. She hadn't received anymore contracts since this one appeared, and she knew the scars would stay until she had completed her assignment, but what _was_ it? Clearly not a hit as she had watched the angels die, even once by her own hand, but they were always resurrected. What did they call it? Discorporated. Maybe this _was_ just a fact-finding mission, and not one of blood.

Glancing once more at the mirror, she smooths out her white vest and opens the door. She could hide her eyes, but why bother. They'll forget her soon enough. She'll make sure of it.

A flustered looking waiter speeds past, almost bumping into her as she steps onto the crisp green grass.

“Here, take this to the large tent over there.”

_It's a marquee, how can you not know that you uncivilized…_

The man shoves a tray into her arms and runs toward the main house.

Although the many, _many_ years have worn away her rougher edges, she still _loathed_ humankind for what they did to her. She knew not all were unkind, but her hatred was not the type that could disappear easily. Sighing in annoyance she steadies the tray on a hand with remarkable ease and enters the large white tent.

_So that's where the small mortals are gathered._

They sat in a rough circle, heckling the poor magician on the small stage as he attempted his rather lame magic tricks.

“You see, it's my old top hat,” he started, “but wait.” He twirled his wand around and tapped it against the table. There was a yawn from somewhere within the audience of kids as the magician reached into his hat. “What's this? Could it be? Our old furry friend…” he trailed off as he lifted a white bunny out, “Harry the rabbit.”

A barely audible amused chuckle exited her lips and trickled into the eardrum of the uniformed man to her right. The white tuxedoed, red-headed man’s eyes drift up from his watch and to the side toward the other staff, the melodic sound still ringing tantalizingly in his ear. The shades resting on the bridge of his nose provided the perfect cover as he began to scan the employees.

She couldn't help her laughter escaping, the show was just so _bad_. It also didn't help that the white haired ‘wizard' with the drawn-on moustache resembled the fluffy creature he was still holding.

“It was in the table.” The birthday boy, Warlock, informed everyone with a roll of his eyes. “You're rubbish.”

Her target on stage continued to hold a cheerful smile, even though he had just been insulted.

“Excuse me,” another boy spoke up, successfully grabbing his attention, “he is right you know. You are actually rubbish.”

_At least he was entertaining. Ungrateful brats._

Standing at the other end of the marquee, the sunglassed targets relaxed posture straightened, spying the woman just on the brink of his peripheral. She wore an amused smirk as she deftly leaned to the side to dodge a flying piece of cake.

Laughter roared and a chaotic food fight commenced, as if the initial throw was a wave of a starting flag. Through the flying pastries, panicked parents, and blur of white uniforms he watched her bob and weave lazily, as if she predetermined where the projectiles came from and their velocity. For a millisecond their eyes met and a second later she was gone.

“It was all a bit of a disaster, I think.”

The voice from around the corner warned her they were too close. She couldn't get back to her bike and she certainly didn't want to leave it here. Who knows what that little horror would do to it.

“Nonsense, you gave them all a party to remember. Last one any of them will have, mind.”

She especially did not want to bump into him again so soon. Although improbable, she was sure that their eyes met whilst the cake was flying. He has very sharp eyesight, and she can't be sure that he won't spot her again. Thankfully, all she had to do was use a little energy and wait.

“You even got a laugh from one of the staff.” She heard a car door open. “Nice bike.”

“I wonder who owns it. These people and those hired didn't look like the type to ride such a beast.”

The red-haired target falls into thought as he leans on the now open car door, the grinning lips from the mysterious waitress vivid in his mind, colour matching that of the polished chrome.

“It's late.” The man playing the magician mumbled as he pulled a limp dove from his inner jacket pocket.

“Comes of putting it up your sleeve.” The other replied, memory of the woman ebbing as he slid into the driver’s seat and turned on the radio.

_Any second now…_

As the last thought of her dwindled, a raven swooped and perched on the handlebars of the motorbike. Although strange, the black clad man thought nothing of it and grinned widely as he peeked out the passenger side window toward his companion. “There's one for you. Something sleeker and more stylish."

“No-" The blonde said, clearly ignoring the remark and letting his companion know he didn't mean his dead bird with but a shake of his head. Tapping the dove on its chest with his finger and watching it wake and fly away, he continued, “- the hell hound. _It's late._ ”

The raven tilted its head as it watched the other enter the car.

An unknown voice echoed from the speakers within the Bentley, loud enough to be clearly heard through the open driver’s side door. 

“Hello Crowley.”

“Uh, hi. Who's this?”

_Hm, so the name of one target is Crowley._

She believed she knew a Crowley once. He was a lot shorter, and a demon. It only occurred to her now that she never actually knew her target's names. How did she not? Surely they had been said throughout their history. She scoured her memory banks in hope for an answer. The answer was - she wasn't _supposed_ to know, much like the sun flare when she first lay eyes on their figures. Probably something to do with the whole ‘knowing someone's true name gives you power over them' thing, however her experience has taught her that it was pure superstition. No one had known her true name, yet they still managed to capture and torture her. Items, items are what held true power. Not words.

The raven hopped further down the handlebars.

“Dagon. Lord of files, master of torment.” The ominous voice replied.

“Yeah… just checking in about the hell hound…” Crowley began, hesitantly.

“He should be with you right now. Why? Is there something wrong, _Crowley_?”

The two in the car share a look.

She was well versed in the unspoken connotations associated with that tone of voice, and she had heard it many times. It can be quite messy. Especially if she's involved.

“Wrong? No, no, nothing's wrong. What could be wrong?”

The raven tilts it's head to the other side.

“Oh, no. I see him now, yes. What a lovely, big helly hell hound. Yes, okay, great talking to you.” Crowley stretched his long arm out and quickly switched off the radio, the movement drawing parallels to someone hanging up a phone call in a hurry. He lets out a deep sigh.

The unnamed blonde target was the first to speak.

“No dog.”

“No dog.”

“Wrong boy.”

Crowley turned his head to look at him. “Wrong boy.” He sighed deeply once more.

“Unless…”

“What.” It wasn't phrased as a question, rather a statement of annoyance.

The targets eyes drift from Crowley’s face as he shuffles in his seat to what lay outside the Bentley, behind him.

Crowley followed his companions’ line of sight to the bird that had now made its way toward the saddle. Feeling eyes on it, the raven looked up and cawed in surprise.

Crowley rolled his eyes with a scoff, “A bird cannot be a hell hound, angel.”

The raven ruffled its feathers slightly, the dim sunlight catching the hidden undertones of deep crimson.

“Not the bird! Although it is very beautiful, interesting eyes-”

_Shit._

“A hell hound is a hound. A dog. A beast…” Crowley trails off and raises an eyebrow, remembering the angels comment about the motorcycle. They both stare at it intently before Crowley realises the stupidity of their actions.

“A hell hound can’t be an inanimate object!” He yells slamming the car door, annoyed mostly with himself. “I need a drink.”

The engine roars to life, drowning out the raven’s laughter.


	3. Luminescent Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The light shines brightly, and Crowley hits a fox.

_…why am I_ here _?_

The rider thought to herself as she glanced toward the shop front. She _knew_ she had taken a right and travelled the road to the place she chose to dwell, so how was it that she now sat idling on the steps of the maroon bookstore?

“I mean, how could I? I'm an _angel_. I cannot curse, and I will not. Ever.”

Hearing the approaching men over the thrum of her bike, she decided it best if she moved to conceal herself. Clearly this was the place she was meant to be, but why? And for what purpose?

Turning down an abandoned alley, she parked her bike and removed her helmet. Rounding the corner, she almost crosses paths with those whom she expected to be already inside, but manages to swerve into a shadowed alcove.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley sighed as he plunged his hands into his jean pockets, “you talk _entirely_ too much _.”_

_Aziraphale and Crowley, huh._

No sooner had the names danced across her thoughts, time stopped, yet only briefly, as if someone had sat on the remote control and then hurriedly pressed play to continue the movie.

_That was… odd. Was that me? That wasn't me._

The tinkling of the bookshops bell brought her back to reality, the iciness of the cold stone wall seeping through her jacket as she pressed her back to the outside of the establishment. She peered through the window. The two stood talking to each other for a moment before Crowley turned his head in her direction. Damn him and his blasted eagle eyes. She chided herself and hoped he did not see her. 

She waited for a moment to pass before peeping once more into the bookshop. Seeing no one there, she opened the door and slunk in. She crept along the shelves, sticking to the shadows, her movements as silent as the brass bell that dared not chime as she entered. Gliding across the wooden floorboards, she reached the back of the store and the muffled voices that trickled around the corner.

_Are they… drunk?_ She chuckled quietly to herself as she inched closer. The answer of course was no, but their complaining lead her to believe otherwise. After the whole killing-them-then-wiping-their-memory-when-they-resurrected debacle, she had steadily grown fond of the angels she had tracked throughout time. Although they didn't know it, they were healing the hatred in her heart and bringing the colour and light back into the eyes that were once dull and dark. Other parts of her physical appearance had changed also, her hair which was once the hue of a stygian abyss now had wondrous undertones of deep crimson, only peeking out whenever caught by a shaft of light. The crushed velvet cloak she still wore, yet even with the hood up, she didn't use her impenetrable caliginosity to mask her face. She had watched her quarry enjoy the many gifts that humanity offered, and even began to partake of them, herself. She was still broken, but at least now she could be broken with wine and her motorcycle.

“Armageddon is days away and we've lost the antichrist.” Crowley’s raspy voice entering her ears as he complained. “Why did the powers of hell have to drag me into this, anyways?”

She poked her head into the room, avoiding the light.

“Well, don't quote me on this, but I'm pretty sure it's because of all those memos you kept sending them, saying how amazingly well you were doing.” Aziraphale commented, pouring them each a glass of single malt from a crystal decanter.

Crowley threw his hand up in the air, “is it my fault they never check-up? _I'm_ to blame they never check-up?” he sighed and rubbed his temple, “everyone stretches the truth a bit in memos to head office. You know that.”

“Yes, but you told them you invented The Spanish Inquisition and started The Second World War.”

“So the humans beat me to it, that's not my fault.” Crowley mumbled in self-defense before giving the air a sniff, “something’s changed.”

The eavesdropper wondered if it was whatever caused time to stop outside the bookshop.

“Oh, it's a new cologne, my barber suggested it.”

She sniffed the air. It was a subtle fragrance, sweet yet masculine. She wondered why she didn't notice it sooner. It suited him.

“Not _you._ I know what you smell like.” Crowley hissed, the room growing silent as he leaned back in his chair. “The hell hound has found its master.”

“Are you sure?”

“I felt it. Would I lie to you?” Crowley questioned.

“Well, obviously. You're a demon, it's what you do.”

_A demon? With wings like an angel?_

“No, I'm not lying. The boy, wherever he is, has the dog. He named it, it's done.” His face turned expressionless, “he's coming into his power, we're doomed.”

“Well then… welcome to the end times.” Aziraphale raised his glass to his lips, but paused upon noticing Crowley sniff the air once more. He lowered the glass and went to open his mouth to ask if something had changed.

Crowley’s hand twitched slightly, a subtle sign to Aziraphale that he needed to be quiet as something was amiss. His eyes weren't the only sharp sense he had as he scanned the room, stopping at the large stack of books where she lay hidden. He knew something, someone, was there. Why could he not see them? He raised his own glass as he took a swig, his other hand signaling to his companion.

“Let there be light!” Aziraphale commanded, clicking his fingers. A large globe of blinding light hovered above her. It was so bright she had to shield her eyes.

Both sets of eyes were now upon her, staring yet unseeing. She wasn't worried. She had only been spotted once, and she fixed it. If all else fails, she'll just do it again. The memory blanch had held, even if it did take her a century to recuperate.

“There's no one there, Crowley.”

“There is, I'm sure of it, it's just too damn bright to see anything!”

She heard another click of fingers as the globe disappeared. She lowered her hand from her eyes and froze. Those that stared into hers definitely _were_ seeing. How did this happen?

The look of confusion that flashed across her face did not go unnoticed before she spun on her heel and dashed toward the closest bookcase, blending into the darkness.

“Wait! Miss!”

She heard Aziraphale call after her, but she ignored him. Flitting from shadow to shadow she ran, stopping only as she reached the alley. She glanced back, seeing them both standing at the entrance of the bookstore. Aziraphale actively scanning the crowd and passersby, trying to spot the leather clad woman. Crowley checked his watch, seemingly uninterested. Throwing Aziraphale a peace sign, he sauntered toward his Bentley.

Aziraphale returned inside and Crowley started his car. His fingers drumming a steady rhythm on the dashboard.

An engine roared to life as a cherry red motorbike zoomed past the windshield, hurtling down the road and weaving through traffic at a tremendous speed. Crowley grinned. He knew he wouldn't have to wait long before the mouse made a run. Turning his wheel he pulled into traffic, Queen blaring from the cars speakers.

-

“Lost her.” The driver of the Bentley mumbled, slightly impressed. No one could out drive Crowley, well, no one until _now._ In denial, he chalked it up to a bike being more maneuverable. Cruising down the dark forest road, he failed to notice the one headlight approaching him from a dirt path at a rapid and erratic pace.

-

_Fenedhis!_ She hissed a swear as she sped down the leaf-strewn path. How had this happened? Six thousand years of a near perfect record, and yet now within one day she had alerted them _somehow_ to her presence. Twice. Her lips tugged into a grin, despite herself. All these years she had been waiting for an opportunity such as this. Watching their story unfold, always a spectator, but now she felt as though she had been written into it. Was the moon finally showing its face? She frowned a little at that thought, being too distracted to feel the burning sensation tingle up her arm. Wishes were for children, monsters get no happy endings.

She swerved as she struggled to stay awake, consciousness ebbing.

_I knew I used too much energy with that last memory manipulation._ She laughed self-deprecatingly. _This may actually kill me._ Was her last thought as the world went black.

“A fox?” The confused driver stared at the animal on the ground then at the large dent in the hood of his Bentley. An animal, especially one as small as this sleek creature, could not cause such an imprint. And anyway, he was _sure_ he saw a headlight before he felt the jolt. A picture of a cherry red motorbike flickered briefly in his brain. Yes, a bike could've done this, but there weren't any around. Crowley shrugged as he ran his bony hand lovingly over the bonnet, the bent metal and broken headlight magically fixing itself. He got into his car and shut the door. He turned the key. The Bentley stayed silent.

“Why aren't you starting? You’re _my_ car! You always start for me.” His gaze drifted to the creature laying lifelessly at the side of the road as he rubbed the back of his neck in annoyance. “Fine. Fine! I'll see to it.”

There was a forest, lush and vibrant. Its trees were of long life, yet still as green as the newest sapling. Above them all towered one as ancient as the land itself, if not older. A young girl in rags stopped underneath to catch her breath. Her tear smeared grubby face and messy hair whipping back as she frantically glanced behind her. One of her blood smeared hands leant on the bizarrely smooth bark of the tree whilst she gasped to fill her lungs. Yells of children from behind her caused her to pull her hand back in a hurry, ready to bolt. The small bloody hand print glimmered slightly, drawing the little girl’s attention before disappearing completely.

“I saw her go this way!”

The girl snapped back to her senses. She spun around with speed and bumped into something soft yet firm. Her eyes widened as she looked up at the seemingly glowing figure in front of her, wisps of red and white poking out from under the evergreen hood.

“ **H** ello small human.” The voice that entered her ears had a very peculiar inflection. It didn't seem to just echo around the vicinity, but somehow throughout the universe too.

Although somewhat loud, the girl felt no fear, just a comforting warmth as if her very soul was being hugged by a loving mother.

“ **W** hy do you run, child?” The cloaked figure asked with a knowing and kind smile. A feminine hand exited the cloak and stroked the little girls head, the slightly clawed nails scratching away the drying blood in her matted brown hair.

“They call me weird and throw rocks. I don't know why.”

“ **Y** ou are an intelligent and practical human spawn. **T** his may be the reason.”

“I just wish I had the power to stand up to them.”

“ **Y** ou wish to be feared?”

“I would even be happy just knowing where they were, so I could hide.”

A sly grin forms on the stranger's tinted lips. “ **A** fingerprint is as good as a signature, **a** nd you my dear, **g** ave me a whole hand. **Y** ou even signed with your own ink."

There was a ringing, growing in volume and tonal frequency. The girl covered her ears, hoping it wouldn't penetrate. Alas, it did, as it was in her mind. She squeezed her eyes shut and thought she heard an amused chuckling whisper in her ear before collapsing on the soft dirt.

“ **O** h little Agnes, **y** ou really shouldn't make deals with strangers.”

……

Her eyes flutter open as she stares at the ceiling, not really registering the unfamiliarity of it.

_Another dream…_ She mumbled as she blinked slowly. Such visions had increased since being in the presence of those she stalked, rather than her usual nightmarish encounters. They did however share a similarity – they were also only fragments of a whole. Were these parts of her memories? Maybe. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking. She still didn't quite understand how they always felt so real, or even why getting her memory back was so important, but had decided when they first started that she would just roll with it. Whatever these images were, they often gave her useful information.

“Is that a spot? _Is it?_ ”

The thunderous voice caused her to bolt upright and wince in pain. She was alive, but where was she? And why was she naked? Last thing she remembered was speeding through the forest… her head spun and she allowed herself to fall back to the cool floor. She was heavily bruised with dry blood caked around her mouth, nose, and ears. The wounds on the surface however, were cleaned. She shuffled slightly to diagnose her current condition. Five broken ribs, a ruptured spleen, and a fractured leg. Wonderful. Well, it could always be worse.

She glanced around at her surroundings. Although smelling antiseptic, this was no hospital. The room had fairly simple and stylish décor, consisting of either marble or some kind of metal. Two throne-like chairs, one large behind the desk and the second small in the corner of the room, were the only real thing that stood out - other than the sepia Mona Lisa hanging on the wall.

“You know what I've told you all about leaf spots. I will not stand for them!”

The man's loud and dark tone bounced off the concrete walls. Was this person really the one who saved her from… well, whatever happened? She was unsure whether she should leave or stay for a little longer, given the fact that only her inner damage had begun to heal, and she still hurt all over.

“You know what you've done. You've disappointed me.”

She could hear the sound of the shaking leaves and their tiny screams at a tonal frequency that normal ears cannot pick up. She never understood how humans could treat flora and fauna so cruelly, nor did she want to. She sneered with disgust. Maybe she should treat this human with the same care he had treated his plants.

“Oh dear, oh dear. Everyone! Say goodbye to your friend. He just couldn't cut it.”

The more she listened, the more she recognised the husky voice. This can't be _his_ abode, _surely._ Had her target captured her _?_ But, wait. She wasn't bound or caged and it seemed that this demon had even _treated_ her. The footsteps approached the room she sat in. She had spent too much time healing and thinking to change into clothes, so she wrapped the blood soaked sheet she sat on around her roughly. Covering her left arm carefully, she noticed something extra. It was difficult to spot at first, the paleness of her skin somewhat hiding the pure white Lichtenberg figures that was etched into her forearm, seemingly sprouting from the glowing pink words of her contract.

“Now, this is going to hurt you so much more than it will hurt me” Crowley glowered as he wandered past the open door, concentrating on the pot plant in his palms.

“And you guys…” he started as he whirled around, level with the entrance, “Grow better!”

The demons thick, cold accent echoed down the hall. He turned to swagger away and locked eyes with the naked woman in his study. Slamming the small plant down onto a nearby small edge table, he strode toward her.

She had never seen him without his sunglasses before, how interesting.

Crowley’s yellow slitted eyes narrow in an attempt of intimidation, his towering form slowly bending at the waist to match her eye level.

“How did _you_ get in here, hm?”

She returned his gaze unphased and unspeaking. Was that a generic ‘you', or a specific ‘you'? She had to wait for more clues.

Crowley was already in a horrible mood and this defiant woman was making it worse. He clicked his fingers. “Get up.”

She remained seated. She knew she had to hide her eyes, but that wasn't really an option at this point and although risky, she knew the longer she held his stare the longer it was distracting him from the soft glowing light emanating from her skin and the smoke-like shadows that encircled her body.

He sneered as he clicked his fingers once more. How is this woman avoiding his powers? He decided to try again, yet with a different tactic “If you won't stand, answer my question. How. Did. You. Get. In. Here.” He growled word by word with gritted teeth as he roughly grasped her chin. His challenge was answered with a raised eyebrow and a goading gleam in her swirling golden eyes.

“Heh.” The demons demeanor shifted drastically as a smirk formed on his thin lips. His grip loosened, hand dropping to his side as he stood once more. “What's your name? You can at least tell me that.”

Silence was the only response as he watched her right hand nonchalantly adjust the silver crescent moon clasp on her cloak and stand effortlessly. Crowley narrowed his eyes. When - _how_ – was she now dressed? He had been watching her all this time and she barely moved a muscle.

“Well, if you won't answer such a simple question…”

His hand shot out and slammed the window next to her head. Her wild onyx hair fluttered a little from the slight breeze the impact had created, yet she barely twitched. Her royal purple and emerald heterochromia eyes bore into his serpent ones. Her retinas were oddly bright like a saturated sunrise, highlighting the perpetual enigmatic light that shone within them. He had already forgotten that he had witnessed these same irises swirling gold only a moment ago. He leaned in close, close enough for her to feel his hot breath on her face as he hissed his next words with a scowl.

“ _Get. Out._ ”

The stranger left the demons home without fuss and with a small smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. It had been an interesting day. Standing outside his building, she scratched her head. Where was her bike?

Crowley watched her from his study window as she pulled her hood up over her face and began walking. There was something odd about the way she moved. She didn't swagger, slither, or even step like a regular human would. She seemed to glide. The footfalls were calculated yet natural, silent and confident. The cold air that surrounded her and the lack of bodily noises slightly unnerved him.

As she disappeared from sight, he spun around, almost tripping on the blood soaked sheet at his feet. He kicked it away and began to exit the room, but paused. It was only now that he noticed the aroma that permeated the air. He sniffed. Blood should smell metallic, whether it be from animal or human, but this was neither, yet bizarrely a mixture of both. Crowley's eyes fell once more upon the crumpled cloth in the corner. He reached down and grasped it, lifting a red patch to his nose and inhaling. The scent was indeed coming from this ruined bedding but it didn't smell like anything he had encountered before, and he had been around many battles. The fragrance that lingered could only be described as contrary. It was feminine and refined, yet earthy and wild. His gaze then dropped to the floor and what littered the area where the woman had sat. Scooping up one of many raven feathers with his free hand, he brought it closer to his face to inspect. The sleek black object flashed its hidden undertone of crimson as he twirled its stem between his forefinger and thumb.

“Well, isn't that interesting.”

A few images flittered into his mind like a darting dragonfly, too fast to catch. Maybe he would try if he had more time, Crowley thought as he tucked the smaller of the two clues into the breast of his vest.


	4. Stories Are Just Stories

“You've lost the boy.”

“ _We've_ lost the boy.” The driver corrected as he sped down cobbled streets.

“A child has been lost, but you still know his age - his birthday. He's eleven.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“Well, it can't be that hard. I just hope nothing's happened to him.”

“Happened? Nothing's happened to him. He happens to everything.” Crowley snapped at his worried passenger.

“So, we only have to find his birth records. Go through the hospital files.”

“And then what?”

“And then we find the child.”

“And then what?” Crowley repeated impatiently, turning to look at Aziraphale.

A look of horror flashed on the angel’s face, “watch out for that pedestrian!”

Crowley swerved in time with smooth motion, “She's on the streets, she knows the risks she's taking.” He replies with a scowl.

“Just watch the-watch the road!” Aziraphale pleaded, letting out a sigh. “W-where is this hospital anyways?”

“A village near Oxford, Tadfield.”

“Crowley, you can't do ninety miles an hour in central London!”

“Why?” He asked as if it were no big deal.

Aziraphale sighed with relief as they excited the city safely and peeked into the backseat. “I noticed it earlier and was intending to ask… why is there a dirtied bed sheet in your Bentley?”

There was a small silence before Crowley responded.

“I hit a fox.”

“Poor thing! Is it alright?”

“I can't be sure, but I think it's a woman.”

“A female fox is called a vixen.” Aziraphale stated, matter-of-factly.

“You're listening, but you aren't _hearing_ , angel. It _turned_ into a woman.” That sounded crazy even to him, and he can morph into a snake. But if that were true, perhaps that's why he couldn't heal the beast with his demonic magic.

“Really, Crowley. I may be easily tricked, but there is no way I'd fall for something as outlandish as that!”

There was no answer. Strange, as he would usually make a remark about the angel knowing he was gullible. Aziraphale glanced at the drivers face. He was serious.

“Well, as you know, you yourself-”

“She wasn't a demon.” Crowley interrupted.

“Perhaps she's-"

“Or an angel. And wouldn't you know of her if she was?”

“Well, I've never met her. She could be a new recruit, a soldier for the mighty battle…” Aziraphale trails off, refocusing his attention to the forest road and not the somber thought of what may happen if they cannot find the antichrist. Something ahead catches his attention. “Stop the car!”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Why? Are you going to be sick?” he jokes.

“You know we can't get sick, please could you pull over!”

Crowley drifts to the side of the road comes to a complete stop, engine still running.

“Can't you feel that?” Aziraphale asks as he opens his door and steps out.

“What are you doing?” Crowley calls from within the car.

“Excuse me, miss?” Aziraphale addresses the strangers back. What is this eerie magnetic power emanating from this seemingly ordinary woman? It was so _familiar_ , yet completely foreign.

Miss? Crowley glances about at the scenery, the area did look familiar and he _did_ smell that fragrance, but he thought it was just the open windows circling the air and scent from the sheet in the back.

“You seem to be searching for something, can we help?”

How. Why. This wasn't the moon illuminating her, this was the blinding sun. Monsters shouldn't be out in the light, and what is she without the dark? The woman shakes her head hoping Aziraphale would leave her be, her messy and wavy hair barely moving as she pulls her hood up to cover her eyes. People _always_ remember her eyes, even if they forget _her_. Worse of all, her bike doesn't seem to be here. Yet another place to cross off her list.

“Can we give you a lift anywhere?”

“Just what are you offering?” Crowley yelled. He was now out of the car, leaning partly on the open door and partly on the roof.

The figure turned toward the two voices and the Bentley with engine still running. They were both here _._ They had both seen _and_ spoken to her. Was this what her contract was? Interacting with the targets? Is that why she now had bizarre vein-like scars creeping up her arm as if she were a victim of a lightning strike? No, that would make no sense.

Aziraphale takes her silence as agreement as he ushers her into the back. She could feel the demon’s eyes on her as she was escorted into the car. He may remember her and although possible, it was highly unlikely. She was _fairly_ sure she had used a block on him before leaving his home. Sliding into the backseat, she stares openly at the bedding that had slipped onto the floor.

“Oh, don't mind that. Just a small accident.” Aziraphale reassured her.

Oh yes. She knew about that. But why did Crowley still have it, and why was it _here._ Her brows furrowed. Leaving something physical, much like evidence, is quite bad. Memories can be recalled from the object by using one or more of the five senses. Touch, taste, smell, sight, and hearing. Why didn't he dispose of it, or at the very least, miracle the stains away? She studied the demons face from the side as he drove. He wore his shades once more - his usual look outside of his house, it would seem.

“See something you like, doll?” Crowley questioned, a small smirk forming on his lips. He did not expect the reply she wordlessly gave as he watched her in the rear-view mirror. A single hand emerged from her cloak holding a small pair of cats-eye sunglasses. After positioning them within the darkness of her hood, she tugged it off and freed her locks. Her hair fluttered like a black butterfly in the wind, her chin resting on her palm as she leaned her elbow on the open window.

“What's your name, dear?” Aziraphale asked the passenger in the backseat. He wasn't just being polite, he really did want to know.

Crowley glances at the woman watching the scenery whizz past and answers for her.

“She won't tell you.”

“Nonsense!”

There is silence in the car.

“Told you.”

“Well, we need something to call her by.” Aziraphale’s shoulders drooped a little. Was she a mute, or was she just rude? Someone with a face so fair surely had to be a nice person too! Pepping himself up, he claps his hands like he has had a marvelous idea “Should we give her one then?”

“What, like pet?” Crowley shifted his focus to the rear-view mirror once more. He swore he heard a small snort of almost escaped laughter from the backseat.

She grinned. Although she couldn't forget her horrific past and the leash that had attempted to confine her, this was such an inane conversation.

“How about-” The angel started before being rudely interrupted by the man who should be watching the road.

“Branwen.”

Her elbow slides off the window sill in shock, in turn causing her hand to punch herself in the face.

How did he _know._

Upon seeing her reaction, Crowley forces a frown, struggling _so hard_ to keep the smirk off his face and the laughter in his throat as he turns his eyes back to that ahead.

Aziraphale’s chipper voice cut through her thoughts like a hot knife through butter. “Oh, I see! Derived from the Welsh word ‘bran’ meaning raven, like the colour of her hair, and ‘gwen’ meaning fair, white. Yes, that suits her well!”

Oh, that.

“Did you know, Branwen was the name of the daughter of Llyr and Penarddun, an interesting tale from medieval welsh literature and the second of the four branches of the Mabinogi. It's a sad tale, that ends in heartbreak. It starts with her brother marrying her off…”

First of all, none of that is true, secondly, she was the complete opposite of a damsel and thirdly, which is the most important, who the hell spins a love story from _any_ sort of battle? Battles are brutal and uncaring, and if you just happened to be in the way when she was summoned, you'd soon be nothing but blood mist. Liquefied with a mere snap of her fingers.

“Anyway…” Remembering the sleek feather in his pocket, Crowley mumbles to himself as Aziraphale continues to prattle on about the Mabinogi of Branwen. “…she looks like a raven to me. And serpents eat birds.”


	5. New Friends

“Afraid of snakes?”

Crowley’s voice interrupted Aziraphale’s storytelling. He knew that tone and knew that the demon was up to no good. What had he done this time? He turned around to see a small asp slithering up her arm.

“Crowley! You can't miracle up a viper to scare the girl!” Aziraphale gasped, eyes wide. “Especially one so deadly!”

_Actually…_

Aziraphale’s fingers paused upon seeing Branwen stroke the serpent.

_I find snakes to be interesting and intelligent creatures. Much like all animals, really._

The voice sounding like the wind whispering in the trees seemed bodiless as she allowed the venomous Egyptian cobra to encircle her neck. She scritched it under the chin as it flicked its tongue over her cheek, tasting the air. She paid no real thought nor attention to the demon or angels’ expression. Needless to say, they were both fairly surprised.

Unbeknownst to her, she could speak freely to them now, and they could _hear_ her. Maybe knowing someone's name wasn't just superstition. Maybe it _was_ real, it's true purpose just wildly inaccurate. Or _maybe_ it had something to do with the slowly growing scar on her arm and the pink writing that had begun to turn pale.

“Peculiar, you are.” She thought she heard someone mutter before the unmistakable sound of fingers clicking.

Aziraphale was the first to exit the Bentley, rushing to help the woman sitting in the back. She hadn't given a destination, so they just took her along for the ride. Seamlessly and naturally, she slipped into the role of third wheel.

“She can climb out herself.” Crowley grumbled as he slammed his door.

“This is the gentlemanly thing to do.”

Crowley responds with a harumph as he saunters slightly ahead, Aziraphale catching up and walking formally, hands behind his back.

“Um, are you sure this is the right place? This-this doesn't look like a hospital, and…” Aziraphale placed a hand on Crowley to stop him walking, “…it feels _loved._ ”

Crowley eyed the area, “No, this is definitely the place.” He furrowed his eyebrows and turned to the angel, “what do you mean, ‘ _loved'_?”

“Well, I mean the opposite of when you say, “I don't like this place, it feels spooky.”” Aziraphale explained.

There was another snort from behind them, another successful attempt at containing laughter.

_Crowley has_ said _that? Can you imagine?_

Both angel and demon were still unsure if the melodic voice that bypassed their eardrums and echoed directly in their minds, was indeed hers and if the other could hear it.

_“_ I don't _ever_ say that. I like spooky. Big spooky fan, me. Let's go talk to some nuns.” He takes a step forward and groans, drawing the attention of Branwen who had been glancing around at all the crates, boxes, barrels, and camo gear. Her eyes behind her small sunglasses widened slightly as she watched him hold his chest. He lifted his hand to reveal what looked like blood. She tilted her head. She always thought demon blood was black. Wait, no. That's a different supernatural creature.

He raised his hand in the air and examined the red substance as Branwen peered over his shoulder with interest. “It's paint _._ ” Crowley stated calmly.

_Oh, it's paint._ She said in unison with the demon, shoulders drooping slightly with disappointment.

“Mine's blue!” Aziraphale exclaimed as he pouted, seeing his ruined jacket shoulder.

“Hey!” A man yelled as he approached them.

_Here we go._

“You've both been hit! I don't know what you think you're playing at right-" his sentence cut short as Crowley's face morphed into a giant, vicious looking, hissing snake with teeth as big as a leg.

Branwen stumbled backward, yet not with fear, but with surprise. She had never seen someone only morph _part_ of their body before! Aside from Crowley, she wondered if it were possible as she stared at the man now fainted on the ground.

“Well that was fun.” Crowley said with a sly and mischievous smile, face back to normal as he briefly side-glanced Branwen. She didn't seem phased, more lost in thought if anything. Well, she _did_ say she liked snakes.

“Well yes, fun for _you._ Look at the state of this coat! I've kept this in tip-top condition for over 180 years now! I'll never get this stain out!” Aziraphale complained.

“You could miracle it away,” Crowley suggested.

“Hm… yes, but, well, I would always know the stain was there. Underneath, I mean.”

After a moment of staring, the demon leant over and blew on the angel’s coat, the stain magically disappearing along with his own.

“Oh, thank you.” The angel smiles.

Branwen's curious stare followed them both as she wondered what their relationship was. She knew they were friends, however they seemed to be more than that - definitely not lovers, although they did act like an old married couple. Soul mates, maybe?

Her eyes lingering on his back quite frankly annoyed Crowley. He turned toward her, watching as her gaze lazily drifted toward the angel that was now picking up a paint gun.

“Impressive hardware” Aziraphale commented as he turned it over in his hands, “I've looked at this gun. It's not a proper one at all. It just shoots paintballs.” He acted like it was the most extraordinary thing. If he had a tail, it'd be wagging with excitement.

A small huff escaped Branwen’s nostrils as she covered her smiling mouth with her hand.

_So cute._

Crowley snatched the gun out of Aziraphale’s hands and pointed it at him.

“Don't your lot disapprove of guns?”

Aziraphale pushed the gun away from his face. “Unless they're in the right hands, then they give weight to moral argument - _I think.”_

Branwen frowned. She was never a fan of guns. Too loud. Too _quick._ Plus, bullets hurt and they ruin perfectly good outfits.

“A moral argument? Really?” Crowley chuckled, throwing the gun to the ground.

There is the sound of a spherical projectile leaving the chamber and a small splat thereafter. A bright green splot of paint was now present on Branwen’s abdomen. She raised an eyebrow.

Crowley's laughter burst forth and Aziraphale began to fret.

“Are you alright? Did you want me to miracle it away? Crowley, how could you laugh at this poor girl's misfortune!”

“Quite easily,” he grinned, still trying to hold his laughter at bay. “Come on.” Crowley's shoulders continued to shake slightly as he lead the way through the vintage building. “This is definitely the place,” he exclaimed whilst eyeing the interior, mirth subsiding and being replaced with extreme seriousness. They walked the halls, trying to find what they needed – which was information. “Wonder where the nuns went.”

“Oh, Millie from accounting caught me on the elbow!” A woman complained as she hurried past them, “who's winning?”

“You're all gonna lose.” Crowley winked as he clicked, pointing at her with finger guns.

“What-what the _hell_ did you just do?” Aziraphale questioned with concern.

A small smirk formed on the demon’s lips. That seemed to be happening a lot today. “Well, they wanted real guns, so I gave them what they wanted.” Gunshots were heard as soon as those words left his mouth.

Branwen glanced out of one of the many windows they passed as they walked the empty corridor.

“There are people out there shooting at each other.” Aziraphale gasped.

_What else is new._

“Well, it lends the weight to their moral argument.” Crowley said whilst raising his foot to kick a door open, “everyone has free will, including the right to murder. Just think of it as a microcosm to the universe.”

_Interesting way of putting it. So, they're murdering each other, then?_ Branwen asked hopefully, not expecting an answer as she thinks she still cannot be heard. She just wanted to be part of the conversation.

“ _No_ , they aren't. No one's killing anyone, they're all having miraculous escapes. It wouldn't be any fun otherwise.” Crowley answers automatically.

_Tsk._ Branwen clicks her tongue in both annoyance and dissatisfaction. Wait. They can _hear_ her? When did that happen?

“You know, Crowley, I've always said that deep down you really are quite a nice-" Aziraphale was cut off as Crowley slammed him against the wall.

“Shut it! I'm a demon! I'm not _nice._ I'm _never_ nice!” Crowley hissed angrily. Branwen raised an eyebrow at the sudden outburst. “Nice is a four-letter word. I will not have-"

_Hate is a four letter word._ Branwen interrupted, a grin playing on her lips. _So is fear, envy, and lust. All which are considered to be negative. Would you show such aversion to those too?_

Aziraphale let out a little giggle, despite the position he was currently in.

Crowley's snake-like eyes that had been narrowed in a glare now widened a fraction in recognition, as did Aziraphale’s. Both angel and demon share a look before turning their heads toward her, attention focused.

_What?_ She asked with feigned innocence, mouth not moving – other than her grin growing wider.

“You can hear her too, then? Glad to know I'm not hearing voices in my head.”

“Well, technically-”

“Other than hers.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen. Sorry to break up an intimate moment.” A woman's voice remarked from behind them, “can I help you?”

Crowley reluctantly shifted his gaze from Branwen to the female addressing them, sneer returning to his face. “ _You._ " he growled between clenched teeth, finally releasing Aziraphale’s collar.

The woman’s polite smile dropped immediately upon seeing whom she had spoken to. “Saints and demons preserve us,” She muttered as she began to retreat, “it's Master Crowley.” She had managed two backward steps before he snapped his fingers, making her mindlessly stand still.

“You didn't have to do that. You could've just asked her.” Aziraphale said whilst fixing his bowtie. A small smile played on his lips as he remembered the voice he heard whilst holding the paintball gun. It had called him cute.

“Oh-" Crowley choked out, “of course, of course. No, yeah, excuse me, ma'am. We're three supernatural entities just looking for the notorious son of Satan. Wonder if you might help with our enquiries?” Sentence oozing sarcasm, so much so that it was practically dripping.

“Three?” Aziraphale questioned.

“What?”

“You said _three_ supernatural entities.”

_He did say three, didn't he. Who's the third,_ Crowley? The way she said his name sent a chill down his spine. It was much like the way Dagon had said it when they asked if there were a problem with the hell hound.

“Two, I meant two.” Crowley replied with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Aziraphale sighed and walked up to the woman. “Uh, ahem, look… _hello._ You weren't, by any chance, a nun here at this convent eleven years ago, were you?”

Crowley narrowed his eyes as he waited for the words to leave her lips.

“I was.” She replied simply in a typical zombie-like manner.

“Luck of the devil.” Aziraphale quietly joked, glancing quickly at Crowley then at Branwen. She returned his small smile with a smirk. 

“What happened to the baby I gave you?” Crowley asked.

“I swapped him with the son of the American ambassador. Such a nice man, he used to be the ambassador to Swindon!” The ex-nun replied as happily as a monotone tranced person could. Crowley and Aziraphale exchange a look. “Then Sister Theresa Garrulous came and took the other baby away.”

Crowley's patience was wearing thin. “This American ambassador, what was his name, where did he come from, and _what did he do with the baby_?”

“I don't know.”

Crowley sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, ignoring the snigger from behind both him and the angel.

“Records! There must have been records.” Aziraphale mentioned, hopeful.

“Oh yes, there were lots of records. We were very good at keeping records.” The woman exclaimed flatly.

“Well, where are they?”

“Burned in the fire.”

Branwen couldn't help but laugh.

Crowley groaned in annoyance. “ _Hastur!”_ Clearly he wasn't a fan of this person.

“Well, is there anything you remember about the baby?” Aziraphale asked.

_Like glowing red eyes, horns, or a tail mayhap?_ Branwen joked. Her knee was bent, foot flat on the painted wall upon which she was leaning.

The woman smiled as she remembered the past, “he had lovely little toesie-woesies.” 

Aziraphale smiled at the comment as Crowley rolled his eyes and Branwen gagged.

“Let's go.” Crowley sighed as he began to stride away.

“You will wake, having had a lovely dream about whatever you like best.” Aziraphale stated kindly toward the woman.

“Oi.” Crowley called, causing Branwen to turn her head in his direction.

Aziraphale quickly snapped his fingers, returning the woman to reality, before hurrying off to catch up to the moody demon.

“I noticed you miracled away the green paint on her cloak.”

“Me? I thought you did.”

Leaving the hospital-now-turned-paintball field, the three casually make their way past police cars and arresting officers.

“You think he'd show up, wouldn't you? You'd think we would detect him in some way.”

“He won't show up - not to us. Protective camouflage. He won't even know it, but his powers keep him hidden from prying occult forces.” Crowley explained.

“Occult forces?” Aziraphale questioned.

Crowley slid his hands inside his jean pockets as he walked, “you and me.”

“I'm not occult.” Aziraphale defended, “angels aren't occult. We're ethereal.”

Crowley rolled his eyes as he opened the driver’s side door of his beloved Bentley. Aziraphale scampered to open the passenger’s door for Branwen.

“Will you stop that.” The demon snapped from the front seat as he switched on the radio. Don't Stop Me Now by Queen blasted out of the speakers.

“Must you have it so loud?” Aziraphale complained as he closed the door behind him.

Crowley turned the knob clockwise, raising the volume significantly just to be a prat. Branwen smiled and closed her eyes, enjoying the wind flying through her hair as they sped down the road recklessly. They seemed to accept her so easily, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, even without knowing her horrific acts against the humans they seem so fond of. That or they just really didn't care about showing their powers in public, or whom they conversed in front of. She enjoyed her freedom and new friends, but missed her bike.


	6. The Slow Fall

“Is there some other way of locating him?” Aziraphale asked, Queen still playing on the radio, breaking the tension that hung in the air.

Crowley sighed deeply, “how the heaven should _I_ know. Armageddon only happens once, you know. You don't get to go around again until you get it right.”

Not technically correct, but she wasn't going to tell them _that._

Aziraphale held onto his seat, still not used to Crowley’s driving. Branwen's eyes focused outside, hoping to spy her motorcycle.

“But I know one thing,” Crowley continued, “if we don't find him, it won't be the war to end all wars. It'll be the war to end _everything._ ”

Noticing the steady silence in the backseat, Aziraphale wondered about Branwen’s emotional and mental state. How was she holding up? Was she just putting on a tough front, even though she's scared? Any normal human woman would be if they had had witnessed and heard everything she had thus far, even one that seemed content in the presence of a deadly viper.

“Are you concerned?” he asked her worriedly. Crowley raised an eyebrow. How could Aziraphale be so ignorant?

She briefly glances toward the angel. _Not particularly._ Her chin returns to her palm and her gaze back to the forest outside. _I'm enjoying the music._

Crowley smirks as he watches their exchange. She really is an odd one.

“There's a very peculiar feeling to this whole area,” Aziraphale spoke, ruining the somewhat peaceful atmosphere.

“I don't feel anything out of the ordinary.”

“But it's _everywhere._ All over here.” The angel gasps. “Love. Flashes of _love._ ”

Spooky _love?_ Branwen questions with mirth.

Crowley scoffs, “You're being ridiculous. Last thing we need right now is-" The Bentley suddenly rammed into something, or _somebody_ , causing him to slam on the breaks. “Again?!” He exclaimed. This was the second time someone had hit him _in this exact spot._ Whatever they hit flew off toward the side of the road.

Branwen's eyes narrowed. _What do you mean, “again”?_

“You hit someone…” Aziraphale muttered in disbelief. Crowley turned to look at his passengers.

Branwen's polychromatic eyes were sharp as knives as they stared into his sunglasses. The jolt had caused her small cats-eye shades to slip from their position secure on her bridge, to halfway down her nose. Something stirred from deep within him. An overwhelming need to tease. The same sort of teasing a young boy would do to a girl they liked. The only other time he felt like this was toward his angelic friend.

She was still glaring at him questioningly as he opened his mouth to speak. “I-I didn't. Someone hit _me._ ”

Branwen immediately jumped out of the car, followed closely by Aziraphale and _eventually_ Crowley.

“Let there be light!” Aziraphale exclaimed, clicking his fingers.

Not this again. Branwen repositions her glasses as she slinks away from the bright globe.

The woman on the side of the road lets out a groan, having trouble yet still managing to speak, “how the hell did you do that?”

Crowley snapped his fingers, causing the light to fade into darkness. It was only then he realised they were the only two standing there. Where was Branwen?

“Ugh, I think I hit my head…”

Aziraphale bent down and ran his hand over the woman’s arm that lay at an unnatural angle, instantly snapping the bones back into place. “That's it. No broken bones.” He mumbled soothingly and helped her stand.

Crowley had moved to the front of his car, his intention to repair the dent and headlight, but was met by Branwen examining the damage. In truth, she was looking for any evidence that he hit her and her bike.

“So this is where you went.”

_So it would seem._ She replied distracted, still eyeing the car dubiously.

He placed a hand on the bonnet of the car and popped it back into place.

“Find what you were looking for?”

_No._ She showed as much interest in him as he showed to the woman he had hit – which was none - as she climbed back into the car. Not knowing why, this made him incredibly angry.

“My bike…” the woman groaned whilst holding her head.

“Amazingly resilient, these old machines.” Aziraphale said as he lifted it with ease, magically fixing the completely mangled bicycle with angel magic. “Where do you need to get to?”

“No, no- We're _not_ giving her a _lift_.” Crowley sneered, shutting the angel down instantly.

_Why not? You didn't just leave me here._ Branwen calls as she leans out the window. _Twice._

Crowley snapped his eyes to her, “Watch it doll, that can still be arranged.” He snarled. 

_Very well._

Much to Crowley's surprise, she opened the door and exited the vehicle. She had called his bluff.

“Nonsense, Crowley. Everyone's getting in the car.”

“Out of the question. There's nowhere to put the bike.”

“Except for the bike rack.” Aziraphale smiled triumphantly at the stubborn demon, ruining his car by miraculously adding one to the back of the Bentley. Crowley narrowed his eyes. “Do get in, dear.” The angel said as he helped the woman walk toward the car.

Crowley climbed into the driver’s seat as Aziraphale followed the woman into the backseat. That only left the passenger’s seat. The driver didn't start the car until she had opened the door and climbed back inside.

_I knew you were bluffing._

“Get out.”

_I'm joking. Maybe._ She turned to him and grinned widely, perfect white teeth showing. The slight light from the radio and dashboard making her pointed cuspids gleam.

He exhales in an exasperated sigh.

**When a red hot man meets a white hot lady**

**Hoop diddy diddy, hoop diddy do**

**Soon the fire starts a raging, gets ‘em more then half crazy**

*click*

_I was listening to that._

“That's why I turned it off.”

Branwen reached over and turned it back on.

**Bicycle, bicycle, bicycle**

**I want to ride my…**

“So where are we taking you?” Aziraphale asks the woman next to him, half listening to the somewhat childish bickering coming from the front.

“Back to the village, I'll give you directions… take a left at the next turn.” She looked at Branwen and tilted her head. She couldn't make sense of her aura. It was sometimes there, then not. Animal, then human. A literal rainbow of colours, then a negative black void. Just who was this person who shared company with two who were not quite human?

Feeling eyes on her, Branwen turned in her seat. _Yes?_

“Anathema Device.” The woman stated, holding out her hand for the passenger to shake. Branwen raised an eyebrow but did not grasp the outstretched palm. Anathema withdrew it slowly and uncomfortably.

“Branwen.” She replied, actually using her vocal cords for once. Her physical voice was just as harmonious as the one that usually conversed with them in their heads, except maybe a little quieter. It was as if she was constantly holding herself back whenever she opened her mouth. Her way of speaking was very controlled and somewhat flat, lacking any and all inflections. Both angel and demon were only a little taken aback at how easily it flowed into their eardrums, soft as silk. She continued, “I like your choice in attire.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, seemingly already irritated by their small talk, even if he did enjoy her velvety voice.

Aziraphale just listened with quiet excitement. He hadn't been privy to many ‘girl talks' in his six thousand years. Unfortunately for him, this wasn't one.

“I can't place your accent, where are you from?” Anathema asked. That was a lie. Branwen didn't have an accent. She just wanted to know from where she originated.

There is a pause. Clearly she was thinking of how to answer the seemingly simple question. “All over.”

“I see.”

The conversation died, much to Aziraphale’s dismay, but to Crowley's relief. His grip on the steering wheel had tightened at some point and had found it hard to concentrate on the road as they spoke.

Both Crowley and Aziraphale wanted to know more about their new companion, without actually asking the questions themselves. They had been hoping she would answer the question Anathema had asked, yet Branwen dodged it. That probably happened a lot, they had come to the conclusion in their respective heads.

Anathema glanced out of the back window to check on her blue bicycle sturdily attached to the bike rack. “I’m sure my bike didn’t have gears…”

“Oh Lord, heal this bike.” Crowley whispered sarcastically, loud enough for the angel in the back seat to hear, but not the human. Branwen cleared her throat to cover the sound of her laughter as Aziraphale pouts.

“I’m sorry, I just got carried away.”

“Oh, you can drop me off here.” Anathema says, interrupting the trio’s quiet conversation.

Crowley pulled around to a quaint cottage and parked. Aziraphale helped Anathema out of the car and followed her up her gravel path, only glancing back briefly at the Bentley and its passengers, hoping they weren’t squabbling once more.

The inside of the car was as silent as the grave before Crowley let out a dramatic sigh and leant his head against the headrest with eyes closed. Branwen eyed him as she wondered what the sigh was about. His face was expressionless and it almost looked peaceful.

“I can _feel_ you staring at me.”

_Both you and Aziraphale were quiet._ She had automatically slipped back to conversing directly into his mind.

Silence.

_Yup, just like that._

He peeked one eye at her and furrowed his brows.

“What is it with you, hm?”

She feigned ignorance. _Me?_ She turned her eyes back to his sunglasses, the extra layer of her own dark tinting making it even more difficult to read what lay behind his.

Crowley leaned toward her, “yes, _you._ ” His husky voice and proximity causing her body to react on its own accord. She had never been physically close to anyone other than those that tortured her, or the ones she had killed. She clenched her fists and her stomach flipped. She wasn't scared of him, but every part of her body was screaming at her to break his neck. He was too close. What is happening here.

_Me? What about you? Both of you. The time around you is so… linear._

“Linear? Time _is_ linear.”

_Unless you have a big blue time machine._ One corner of Branwen's lips tug up slightly in amusement as she kept her gaze. A predator does not break eye contact with its prey, and habits are hard to break.

“Why blue?”

_Why not?_

Crowley reaches out and takes off her glasses, ignoring the small electric shock that traveled down his arm, coming from who knows where. Probably just static he thinks as his cold fingers graze her cheek. It really was as soft as it looked.

“I'm talking about these.” His piercing eyes that still sat behind sunglasses, stared into hers that did not.

_My glasses?_

He sighs. He should have guessed she would do this. “You are such an enigma.”

_Why thank you._ She grins, a mixture of malice and mischief.

His eyes drift to her now curved lips. They seemed to always be red. Sometimes dark, like if she had just eaten a black cherry, the juice staining them, and sometimes as light as the colour of fresh blood. He ran his thumb over her bottom lip.

“ **W** h-?!" she used her speaking voice. Her _real_ voice. The one even _she_ didn’t know she possessed. In less time than it takes to blink, she had him pinned to the driver’s seat, a dagger to his ribs and an arm pressing on his throat.

“I wanted to see if it came off.” He stated innocently. “Nice reflexes.”

Branwen's eyes stayed narrowed, arm still on throat and pushing.

“Uncle.” Crowley coughs.

Branwen snaps out of it and nonchalantly slides off him, as if nothing had happened. There was a small silence.

“What was that about?”

_Whatever do you mean … Master Crowley?_

“Don't-don’t do that.”

Branwen laughed and the tension faded from the air.

“Hurry up, angel!” Crowley yelled, leaning out of the cars window.

As he was distracted, she swiped her glasses from his hand and placed them back onto her face, just in time for Aziraphale to hop into the back seat. He smiled at her warmly. She returned the smile.


	7. The Lair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music in this chapter (other than Queen):  
> Afraid of the Dark by Phildel

_Thank you, Julia._ Branwen nods to the waitress as the blonde girl pours her a glass of red wine. _Leave the bottle._

Crowley was currently leaned back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest and watching her every move intently, untouched drink in front of him. How did she know the name of the waitress? And what was with the minute shake of the head she gave the woman when they first entered?

“Are you sure you aren't hungry?” Aziraphale asks with concern. He had never seen her actually _eat_ anything, but he was still _fairly_ sure she was human.

_I'm sure._ She replies with a smile sweeter than his desert in front of him.

The angel’s eyes widen slightly before quickly dropping his gaze down to his plate in a fluster.

_So… Why are we here? Shouldn't you be thwarting the apocalypse or something?_

“I thought _we_ could mix it up a bit.” Crowley replied from her left, eyes narrowed and correcting her pronoun. “I'm always surprised by how large the inside of this place is, when it looks so small on the outside.”

Branwen raises an eyebrow skeptically at his first comment and grinned at his last.

“It has crepes!” Aziraphale chirped happily, from her right. Clearly this was the real reason they had paused for a bite to eat. Talk about having an angel and demon on each shoulder.

_Okay…. But why am I suddenly wearing this?_

She looked like a real high class lady with an Edwardian feel. The ruffled collar of her light pink, long sleeved tulle blouse rose and fell with each breath, the slightly puffed arms tightened and fastened at the wrist with small pearl buttons. A beige high-waisted, full-length skirt stopped at her mid drift, four largish brass buttons, two on either side provided symmetry. Her heels were white in colour and her hair had been curled in a stylish French twist with added ringlets. Around her neck was a choker made from tartan ribbon, tied in a bow at the front like a present ready to be unwrapped. Her earrings were all pearl or rose gold and tucked in her hair, a delicate pink pearl blossom hair comb sat snugly.

“I remember you remarking that you admired Anathemas attire, and you can't wear your cloak in here!” Aziraphale mentioned as he surveyed the familiar quaint café and bar before turning his attention back on her. “Do you like it?”

_It's… nice…_ Branwen began awkwardly, trying to choose her words carefully. She didn't want to be rude to the angel who had just miracled her a whole new outfit, but honestly… she was the owner of this bistro.

On her off time, however brief and rare it usually was, Branwen owned and managed a fairly quiet, quaint yet elegant licensed café near the Great British Museum in Bloomsbury. When all surrounding businesses of a similar nature close for the night, the café hosts live entertainment - of many different types. In the 50s, she had bought a local hang out spot coveted in garden, and by a bizarre twist of fate, where her targets occasionally held their small meetings when not in St. James’s Park. This in turn made her job easier, and she could hide in plain sight instead of her usual skulking. A refreshing change. As the years went by and redeveloped, she had implemented items such as indoor plants, food, and drinks to their tastes. This small haven was the only place she felt at home, and where she could showcase some of the other talents she discovered she possessed - those being of the non-murdering nature. The staff were used to their bizarre owner that seemed to disappear mid conversation, the complete lack of anything other than disgust she showed toward the customers, and even the strange and unexplainable coincidences that seemed to follow her. She favoured those that worked for her – they were good people. Well, loosely speaking. Unbeknownst to the humanoids in her service, they were of angel descent. Nephilim. Not that this was unusual of course, as many humans were.

Branwen fiddled with her bow. She liked _parts_ of the outfit… well, the ribbon… but the rest just wasn't her. It would be tolerable… maybe… in a different – darker – colour.

Crowley, who had noticed the small change in demeanor, snapped his fingers.

The shirt she donned suddenly shrank and changed to black lace, its sleeves were tight and flared at the wrist. Her high skirt became a high wiggle as it hugged her hips, two large splits traveled up the length of both thighs, but not high enough to see that she was wearing a garter. Her hair was slightly curled in an intricate up do, raven feathers akin to the one still in his vest, tucked decoratively in the more tightly wound curls. Black stiletto heels that were so sharp they would be considered a weapon, cradled her feet comfortably as a silver chained crescent moon necklace sat perfectly in her clavicle. Her slightly pointed many pierced ears also wore dangling stars on one side and a snake ear cuff on the other. Her black winged eyeliner and red lipstick just highlighted her natural beauty, even if no one could see her eye makeup behind her sunglasses.

“Come on angel, at least accentuate the curves she hides under that cloak. Now, that's better.”

_I’m not your personal dress up doll._

_“_ Crowley, you can't _do that_ in here!” Aziraphale stated, “What if someone were to see? That’s why I did mine in the car!”

“No one's looking _.”_ He replies, rolling his eyes a little.

“What was wrong with mine? You even changed her hair!”

“She doesn't _do_ colours.”

_Much like you don't_ do _four-letter words?_

“Really, Crowley.” Aziraphale scoffs after giggling at her dig, “you make her sound so gloomy.”

“Muted tones in contrast with her raven hair makes her already pale skin look sickly.” They both stare at him in shock. “What?”

“Why Crowley, I didn't know you paid so much attention to-”

“Shut up.”

“Well, I think you look simply _ravishing,_ my dear.” Aziraphale throws a quick glance toward Crowley, “in _any_ attire.”

Can angels actually say that? She wondered with a soft smile as she sipped from her glass. She sat with an unexpected elegance and an image that was so unlike her normal somewhat tribal Valkyrie/lady death look that it made them both shift uncomfortably in their seats.

Although it was by his own design Crowley found it difficult to pry his serpentine eyes away from her exposed flesh. Sure, she had been naked in his home, but for some reason he couldn't really recall it all that well. He needed to look elsewhere. _Anywhere else but her._

Aziraphale must've had the same thought as he suddenly seemed _really_ interested in his crepe, however rather than finishing it, he just seemed to push it around with his fork.

Wow. This is exciting. She thinks sarcastically as she watches other patrons chatting merrily. Some people were even dancing to the soft music being played by the small band closer to the bar. A singer stood to the left of a microphone drinking some water, getting ready for the next set. Branwen's index finger traced the lip of the wine glass as she leans her elbow on the table. If she knew the evening would be so dull, she would have declined the invitation of a meal and would be the one up on the stage right now. Letting out a small sigh, she jumps a little as she feels a light tap on her shoulder. Glancing up, she sees a strikingly handsome man with mottled green eyes and hair almost as dark as hers, smiling down at her.

_Theo?_

“I'm sorry if I'm bothering you, I just…” he trailed off and laughed nervously. Strengthening his resolve, he offers her his hand “Care to dance?”

She glanced to both her companions with unease. She hadn't had to _touch_ a human in a social setting before, even one with angel ancestors. Nothing betrayed their stoic expressions as they sipped their beverages, seemingly disinterested. She grit her teeth ever so slightly as she felt her anger rise. She shook her head, shaking away the negative feelings of her factory settings as she replaced her tiny frown with a plastered friendly smile. It's fine, she'll be fine. She can do this.

_Why not._

Placing her hand delicately in his, Branwen stood elegantly, escorted now by the man with the kind eyes toward the dance floor as the next song began to play.

-

“Is this really alright?” Aziraphale asks Crowley as they watch Branwen walk away with some unknown man.

“She's more capable than she looks.” Crowley said as he rubbed his neck, remembering her arm that had once been pressed against his windpipe. With eyes still narrowed, he continued to watch Branwen. “And anyway, she seemed to know him.” He crossed his arms over his chest once more.

-

**Holding…**

_I haven't danced in a long time, I may be a little rusty._

**You close…**

The man chuckled as he gave a small bow, a gentlemanly start to begin a dance.

**Feels like…**

_Really?_ She chuckled, bobbing her knees a little in a small curtsy.

**A cut-throat…**

_Shouldn't you be working?_

**Losing blood…**

He grins a little shyly, “I'm on break.”

**The weakness of...**

Placing a hand on the small of her back, Theo begins to lead her in the dance.

**Falling…**

-

**In love.**

Crowley's scowl grows deeper as he watches over them, their bodies a little too close for his comfort.

Aziraphale also looks displeased, a small frown gracing his usually smiling face.

-

**And I was never afraid of the dark**

_Break? And you're wasting it on little ol’ me?_ She tilts her head in confusion. Why would anyone want to dance, let alone spend time with her willingly? Was this a ruse? She narrows her eyes suspiciously. _Why?_

**Until you, oh the weapon you make of my heart**

Theo scratches one of his slightly pink cheeks with his index finger as he glances to the side. “Hm… how do I put it… You have this weird aura that draws people in. Don't you feel everyone's eyes on you?”

**And it's true, I was never afraid of the dark**

I certainly feel someone's eyes on me. She thinks as she tries to sneak a glance toward her table. Her dance partner spins her carefully then pulling her close and into a gentle sway, blocking her view of her companions.

**Until you, oh the weapon you make of my heart.**

“Mine were.”

_What?_

**Resisting…**

Theo coughs bashfully and turns his head, cheeks aflame. Did she hear him?

**Your soul…**

Did he just… confess? No one had ever… no. What. What an unfamiliar situation and sensation. Interesting.

**Is walking….**

They continued to dance in silence, Branwen staring at his face openly as Theo's gaze was anywhere but on her. Anyone would think they were a couple on an awkward first date.

_Apologies._

Theo eventually glanced back to Branwen and she smiled. He returned her smile tinged with disappointment.

**A tightrope…**

“You look very beautiful.”

_Thank you._ Branwen laughed.

**The distant sound…**

There is an unmistakable tinkle of breaking glass from behind her somewhere. Probably just a clumsy waiter.

-

They watch as her plastered smile melts into a genuine one. She was now laughing with this unknown man. Crowley clenches his fist, shattering the glass he had been holding.

“Well I don't know about you, but I can't stand it.” Aziraphale mumbles, placing his cutlery down and pushing his seat back.

-

**Of dangerous ground…**

Theo's eyes crinkle into a smile as he relaxes. “Shall we?” He laughed, spinning her in a big flourish.

-

Crowley begins to stand, yet his companion beats him to it as he watches the angel stride across the floor with purpose. Seems angels can feel ugly emotions too. Who knew.

**Wolves are calling.**

-

As she twirled out, her free hand was caught by another, yanking her into a soft embrace. A subtle sweet smell drifts into her nostrils as her vision is obscured by a brown vest and a blue shirt. She lifts her head to meet the kind gaze of her new dance partner, the other one nowhere in sight.

**And I was never afraid of the dark**

“Mind if I cut in?”

Her face lights up as she chuckles. _Of course not, But I thought angels can't dance._

“I'm very good at the Gavotte!”

_I’d love to see it one day._ Branwen smiled, stars practically twinkling in her eyes though it was probably just the reflection of the overhead lights.

There was a small silence as he contemplated her answer, wondering if he should perform now. Glancing down at her, he finally responded, deciding to answer her first statement. “We usually don't dance, however…”

**No I was never afraid**

_However?_

There was another pause. He himself wasn’t sure why he interrupted her and the man named Theo. His body just moved on its own. Remarkable!

_Aziraphale_!

**Until you, oh the weapon you make of my heart**

“What? Oh! But I made an exception.”

_Well thank you._ She broke into a wide grin followed shortly by laughter, _no wonder angels don't dance. You really are bad at this._

**And it's true, I was never afraid of the dark**

“What do you hide behind your sunglasses?”

_What?_ She was taken aback.

“Do you also have eyes like a serpent?”

**No I was never afraid**

Branwen chuckles, _of course not!_

“So you wouldn’t mind if I…”

**Until you, oh the weapon you made of my heart**

A smell of fruit and wine drift into her nose seconds before she sees a skinny hand catching Aziraphale's wrist.

_Crowley._

Aziraphale drops his hand and frowns a little.

**Till the weapon you made of my heart.**

“We're leaving.” Crowley releases the angel’s wrist and grasps hers, dragging her outside and into the cool air. Clapping and cheering is heard from the brightly lit café they were now exiting, the end of the song. Crowley stops at his Bentley and opens the door for her, “get in the car.”

_How gentlemanly of you._

Crowley sighed and ran a hand through his red hair. “Get in the car or I will force you myself. Your choice.”

_Oooh, can I choose the latter?_ She grinned. She had begun to have a nice evening, why should she let him spoil it?

“Get in the bloody car!” he commanded uncharacteristically.

Branwen raised an eyebrow but slipped into the backseat anyway. The door slammed behind her.

“That wasn't necessary, Crowley…”

“Shut it, angel.” He hopped into the front seat and started the engine, the radio flickering to life.

**I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me**

**He's just a poor boy, from a poor family**

**Spare him his life from this monstrosity**

Branwen stared at Crowley and tilted her head. She wondered what got him so pissy. Wasn't Aziraphale his friend?


	8. Charm and Hypnotism

The Bentley swerved toward the side of the road and parked outside Aziraphale's bookshop. The entire car ride had been silent, other than Queen bellowing out of the radio speakers. Both angel and demon hopped outside the car. Branwen swung her legs to get out, but kicked something on the floor. Picking it up, she realised it was a book. She examined the green battered cover ‘The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter'.

 _Agnes?_ The dream she had before she awoke in Crowley's house flicked through her mind. Was that little girl the author of this novel? Branwen was curious. She quickly flipped through the tome and scanned its pages. They were indeed accurate, however her arrival wasn't in the book. Not just her arrival, but anything about her. She was an anomaly, and she wasn't sure how she felt about that. Branwen frowned. She was a monster _and_ a mistake? This day just kept getting better and better. But wait… was she perhaps responsible for the making of this seer? That would explain the lack of existence, especially if pacted. Frown still gracing her face, she stepped out onto the wet streets of London.

_Is this yours?_

Crowley glanced at the book in her hand, but not at her face. “I don't read books.” He replied with glower, leaning his elbows against the roof of the car.

“It has to belong to the young lady you hit with your car.” Aziraphale chimed in, causing the demons scowl to grow deeper.

“I'm in enough trouble as it is. I'm not going to start returning lost property, that's what _your_ lot do.”

Aziraphale reached over to take the book from Branwen's delicate hand, smiling at her in the process. He noticed her thoughtful frown and mistook it for one of upset. Ignoring the book for the moment, the angel places a comforting hand on hers.

“What's the matter, dear?”

Branwen shakes her head. _Nothing._

Crowley overhears the exchange and sideglances them.

“Well, if you ever need anyone to talk to…”

 _How kind._ She smiles and squeezes his hand a little.

“Why don't you just send it to the Tadfield post office addressed to ‘the mad American woman with the bicycle’?” Crowley spoke up in annoyance, wanting to remind these two that he was in fact still there.

Branwen releases Aziraphale's hand and shoves the book toward him, immediately noticing his change in manner as he read the cover.

“Oh, uh… jolly good, yes. Rather.” He turned to hurry up the side walk.

Branwen raises an eyebrow. Clearly Aziraphale doesn't want the demon to know about this book. Understandable, I suppose. She thinks as she rubs her chin. It does, after all say where and who the antichrist is.

“Are you alright?” Crowley asked the skittish angel.

“Perfectly, yes. Uh, tip top. Absolutely tickety-boo.” Aziraphale gave them both a quirky smile before closing and locking the door behind him.

““Tickety-boo?” That was a thing.”

_He didn't offer us tea._

“Did you _want_ to go in?”

She shrugs.

“Come on.”

Crowley slipped into the front once more, and Branwen into the passenger’s side.

**She's a Killer Queen,**

**Gunpowder, gelatine**

**Dynamite with a laser beam**

**Guaranteed to blow your mind**

The music began with the start of the engine, softly drifting throughout the peaceful car. Noticing familiar surroundings, Branwen was the first to speak.

_Why are we heading to your house, Crowley?_

“We need to talk.”

_Oh, wonderful. The best conversations start with that one sentence. Why don't we just talk in the car? Then you can drop me off somewhere later._

“Can I just?”

Branwen grinned. He was back to his normal, teasing self. The rest of the drive was not uncomfortable, and soon they pulled up to his home.

“Nostalgic.”

Branwen laughed. _How is this nostalgic?_ She asked, running a finger over a plant's frond lovingly.

Crowley watched her movement intently, picturing himself in the plant's position. For a split second, Crowley felt his heart flutter, which honestly repulsed him. He shook his head roughly to chase away his bizarre notion of being jealous of a _plant_.

Her attention turned back to him. _So, what did you want to talk about?_

He began to sway subtly back and forth. Maybe he could charm her this way. It had a high success rate and it even worked on his heavenly friend.

“Well, I think you should tell me more about you, don't you think?”

_Why?_

“So we can get closer, be better friends.”

_Friends? Well, I suppose… if that's what you'd like to call it._

Yes! It was working!

 _What would you like to know… Master Crowley?_ A grin crept onto her face. She believed calling him that made him uncomfortable. It did, just not in the way she thought.

He hated to admit it, but he had previously discovered that he enjoyed how her voice purred as she called him master. Maybe a little _too_ much. Crowley stopped and sighed. This wasn't working either, and the overwhelming feeling of needing to tease was only growing. How peculiar.

 _I can't believe you tried to hypnotise me, you snake._ She laughed lightly. The musical sound flowing effortless from her lips and into his ears.

Passing by her and shoulders brushing slightly, Crowley waves his hand to pivot the grey wall. Entering his study and pouring himself a glass of red wine, he runs his other hand over the gold of his throne. The small vintage-looking radio on a shelf playing Breakthru by Queen quietly.

“Care for a drink?”

_Certainly._

**Honey, you're touching something; you're touching me**

**I'm under your thumb, under your spell, can't you see?**

After pouring her one too, they clinked glasses and each took a sip of their beverages. Crowley sauntered toward his chair and sprawled out onto it. Branwen sat on the edge of his marble desk. His eyes watched her intently as he swirled the liquid around in his glass.

**If I could only reach you**

_The radio is a new addition._

Crowley lifted the glass to his lips and took another swig, swishing the wine between his teeth.

“Aren't you afraid of dying?”

 _No._ Her answer was immediate and automatic. There was absolutely no hesitation to the point where she almost cut him off. Knowing he was studying her reaction, her gaze drifted to her glass and her reflection in the wine.

**If I could make you smile**

After a short moment, she sensed movement. Crowley reached toward her – past her and to the phone that sat on the table just behind her. Placing the receiver between his ear and shoulder, he began to dial a number. After a few rings, the person on the other side picked up.

**If I could only reach you**

“Any news? Found the antichrist yet?”

**That would really be a breakthrough**

Branwen's ears perked and she turned her head in Crowley's direction as she heard the voice of the unknown callee.

“No, no news. Nothing, nothing at all. If I had anything, I'd tell you, obviously.” There was a hesitant pause. “Immediately. We're friends. Why would you even ask?”

_Aziraphale...?_

“Oh, are you with Branwen? What's she doing there? Let me talk to her.” Aziraphale's tone changed completely, causing a scowl to form on Crowley's face and his eyes to narrow.

**Break through these barriers of pain**

“There's no news here either, call me if you find anything.”

“Absolutely, why would you think I wouldn’t? Can I talk to-”

*click* Crowley hung up.

**Break through to the sunshine from the rain**

_He sounded flustered._

“So what's going on with you and the angel?”

**Make my feelings known toward you**

_What?_ His question threw her. She didn't expect this. _Who, Aziraphale?_

“No, Gabriel. _Of course_ Aziraphale.” Crowley rolled his serpent eyes dramatically and sarcastically, and although she couldn't _see_ it, she could definitely sense it.

**Turn my heart inside and out for you now**

_Nothing is going on?_

_“_ You seem awfully _friendly._ ”

**Somehow I have to make this final breakthrough**

_Of course, we're friends. He wanted to know if I had eyes like yours. Speaking of…_ Branwen places her glass down and leans toward Crowley. Her chest is level with his eyes as she reaches over and pulls the glasses off his face carefully. She grins as she returns to her previous position, twirling his glasses with one hand. _That's better! You know…_ Branwen looks at the small round glasses in her hands. After a small pause, she reaches up and takes her own glasses off and places them on the table in front of her. _I have always wanted to try these on._

Crowley watches as she places his sunglasses over her eyes and rests them on the bridge of her nose. It felt rather intimate, even though they were only chunks of tinted glass. Probably because his shades were like an extension of himself, and they surprisingly suited her.

_Very nice!_

She smiled the most genuine smile he had ever seen, other than the one she showed his plants.

**Your smile speaks books to me**

**I break up, with each and every one of your looks at me**

Taking a sip from her glass whilst keeping his glasses on, she continues the conversation. _He has to see them sometime._ She shrugs. She didn't see what the big deal was, and wearing sunglasses all the time gets a little annoying.

“Maybe, but not in that kind of atmosphere.”

**Honey, you're starting something deep inside of me**

_And what kind of atmosphere is that?_

“A romantic one.”

**Honey, you're sparking something this fire in me**

_You know what romance is? Answer me this; are you jealous of me or Aziraphale? Because as much as I find jealousy to be an endearing quality, I can assure you that no one, especially an angel, would see me in that light. And anyway, angels supposedly love all things equally._

“Who’s jealous? And you have _met_ him, haven't you?”

**I'm outta control**

_Fair point. But no one in their right mind would willingly fall for me. Literally, in this case. You know that's how the Nephilim came about._

“You'd have to be a human to create one of those abominations.”

_Abominations? You sound like a fanatic angel. And who’s to say I'm not …human._

“I'll ignore that insult to my intelligence. You almost stab me, yet you look at him with dreamy eyes.”

**I want to rush headlong into this ecstasy**

_You caught me off guard. And ‘dreamy eyes’? Please. That's for teenage girls, are you_ trying _to make me ill? Why do you even care?_

“I _don't_ care. Don't think you're anything special, because you're _not_.” Crowley hissed, tone laced with venom. “I couldn't care less about you, or your life. You could die in the apocalypse and I wouldn't lose sleep over it.”

That flipped a switch in Branwen and she was _pissed_. How did things get like this?

 _Oh no, yeah, no, of course, you_ can't _care because you're a_ demon _and it's a four-letter word._ The angrier she got, the more the furniture shook, and the more her control ebbed. In turn, the more control she lost, the more her natural voice burst forth from her snarling lips. _“ **F** or a fallen angel you're pretty fucking high and mighty up on that **l** onely pedestal made of self loathing and false hatred.” _She was hurt and insulted. Clearly she was the fool. “ **I** _f_ **anyone** _had an excuse not to_ **care** _about_ **anything** , **_i_** _t would be-”_

The glasses of wine on the table shattered spectacularly bringing Branwen back to herself, red alcoholic liquid dripping from all surfaces.

_Fine._

With that one word spat through gritted teeth and unabridged anger, she ripped off his sunglasses and threw them at him. He only had moment to see that her once overly bright purple and green eyes were now dull colours of grey, swirling with black shadow.

Crowley watched silently through the window as she left his home. It was pouring with rain as she stepped into the crisp night air and was immediately cloaked with darkness. He sighed. That didn't go as planned. The problem was, he _did_ care about her. And he _hated_ himself for it. But more importantly, what _is_ she?


	9. Bunny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music in this chapter:  
> Tam Lin (Child 39) by Anaïs Mitchell  
> Listen to it. It's awesome.

Horrific nightmares, memories, assaulted her from all directions. The metallic smell of blood permeated her nostrils. She breathed in deep and grinned malevolently. She knew it was from a memory, but right now, as she glided through the streets of London, she wished she was upon that battlefield once more. The pelting rain froze into sharp icicles as it hit the shifting void that seemed to emanate from her like some eerie aura, visible to all living creatures, not just witches. What she _really_ wanted to do right now is rip open someone's chest, plunge her bare hand in and pull out their heart, just to watch as it stops beating.

_Tsss-!_

Branwen sucked a sharp breath through her teeth. A scalding pain coursed up her arm, stopping under her armpit. That's right. The contract. How annoying. She thought about her new friends and how they had been content in staying more or less in that one country, going about their business. One reading and not selling books, and the other pretending to do bad things, when he was really just watching humans be humans. She scowled as his idiotic grin danced across her mind. She grew restless as the seconds ticked by, a swirl of emotions she had never felt nor cared about before. They were all too _human,_ and that's what disgusted her. What happened to her simple life? Sure, it was literally torture, but at least she had purpose. This world she was thrown into – it wasn't hers. Not really. She should just go back to the dank and dark, being the perfect weapon and waiting to be unleashed upon the unsuspecting mortals. Her movement stopped as she stretched out her left arm. The scars which were once pink were now as black as squid ink. With empty eyes and unnerving calm, she dug her claws into her flesh. Blood dripped silently onto the concrete, yet whenever she removed her hand, her wounds would close.

 _Well fuck me and my healing ability._ She said in monotone as she brandished a small dagger made entirely of shadow.

“Boss?”

The tip had just touched her bloodied arm, before a woman's voice pulled Branwen out of her monotonous trance. She drift her dead eyes upward. She had somehow walked herself all the way to her café.

_Good evening, Julia._

“Are you alright? I didn't think I'd see you again tonight, especially this late. Did you want to go on? I can go get changed…”

After placing the garbage bag into the dumpster, Julia passed by Branwen, the winged tattoo on the Nephilims’ shoulder blades catching her attention.

Of course. How could she forget her other friend? The one that seemed to actually _care_ about scum like her. She may be a metaphorical Death Head Moth, but a moth cannot fight its nature, and it may yet find solace in something that is practically pure light. Branwen's eyes cleared a little and life returned to her voice.

_Not tonight, I need to see a friend. This is a long shot, but I don't suppose you've seen my bike?_

“It's out the back.” Julia smiled with relief and took her leave, her black apron with crescent moon logo shifting as she ran back inside.

The sound of a knocking door interrupts Aziraphale's intent reading of the green bound book. He removes his small spectacles, glances at his small pocket watch and frowns. Who could be here so late? He was sure he had flipped his sign to closed and pulled the blinds down. It couldn't be Crowley, he never knocks on a locked door, rather he opens them or kicks them in. He ignored it and the knocking stopped. He put his reading glasses on again and refocused.

_You wanted to speak with me?_

Aziraphale looked up with a start. Branwen stood near a bookshelf, dripping wet and holding a motorbike helmet under one arm. He stood in a flurry and rushed over to her.

“Dear! I'm so sorry! If I knew that was you at the door, I of course would have let you in immediately!”

 _It's okay._ Branwen laughed. Her heavenly friend always had a way of relighting that almost snuffed out dim flame in her dark heart, causing it to glow and chase away her own personal monsters. At least for a time. It probably has something to do with him being an angel, she thought dismissively, ignoring the warmth that spread throughout her chest. _I'll be dry in a moment, but I would love whatever you're drinking. It smells amazing._

“One special cocoa, marshmallow, sprinkle surprise coming right up.”

She grinned at his back as shadows encircled her, sucking away the moisture and equipping her with her trusty cloak. _How's the reading coming along?_ She asked as she glanced at the book which lay open on the table.

Aziraphale spun around in time to witness the last wisps of smoke like darkness leaving her now high ponytailed hair. Handing her hot drink to her, his hand almost slipped, now noticing the blood that had not been washed away by the rain. Branwen caught the cup just in time with little to no spillage.

“You're injured!”

 _I'm really not._ Branwen placed her cup next to his on his desk.

“Nonsense, show me.” Aziraphale yanked her arm forward as he sat on the seat opposite.

_There's really no need…_

His eyes widened as he inspected her arm. “Did an angel strike you?”

 _I'm sorry?_ With confusion she glanced at her own arm.

“These markings… are from lightning, are they not?” He asked as he gently stroked her arm, a small electric shock travelling up his fingers. Thinking it still has a little charge, he disregards it.

Clever. She thought as she shivered slightly from his soft touch, the contract is clearly for her eyes only. Makes sense, you wouldn't want a target to know they are a target.

Seeing her reaction Aziraphale pulled his hands back immediately. “I'm sorry.” He mumbled, averting his gaze, a small smile playing on his lips.

 _It's not a big deal…_ she started, changing the subject and withdrawing her arm, _but you were curious, right?_ She asked as she removed her sunglasses.

“Beautiful…” he sighs in a whisper, his eyes wide.

 _You'll make me blush if you keep staring like that._ Branwen jokes, teasingly.

“But you really are so very beautiful.”

_You mean my eyes, right?_

“What? Oh. Yes. Yes, of course. Ahem.”

Branwen chuckles as he turns away in a fluster. She feels her face relax into a smile.

With sudden realisation, Aziraphale whips his head back and goes to stand. “You're an angel?”

 _What? Oh. The purple. No._ She laughs. _I am no devil, but if you knew the type of person I was – am, you'd know I was no celestial being either._

Aziraphale opens his mouth and is interrupted.

_Can I stay with you?_

“Pardon?” He is taken aback. What exactly does she mean by that?

_Just for tonight._

“What? Oh. Yes. Quite so.”

 _What were you imagining Aziraphale?_ She grins teasingly, seeing his expression.

“I wasn't imagining anything!” He replies a little too quickly, pushing down the bizarre notion of somehow taking her up to heaven if the apocalypse could not be prevented.

 _Don't you have a lot left to read?_ Branwen asks, her index finger pointing to the green bound book he had been perusing.

“What? Oh, yes, right, sorry, jolly good.” He positions himself in front of his tome, glasses on the tip of his nose, before glancing at her once more. He wouldn't be a good host if he just left her sitting there.

_Mind if I get a book from the store? To read. Carefully._

“Of course! I trust you'll look after it.”

She smiles as she stands and rounds the corner, only barely hearing the mumble from the angel in the other room.

Aziraphale covers his face with his hand, the somewhat alien feeling of his heart hammering in his chest. “What am I doing…”

…

A few hours pass and all is silent in the bookstore. The dim light of the hidden full moon barely illuminating the interior, let alone the exterior. Aziraphale sits with his desk lamp on, staring blankly at Agnes' book. He had read it over several times, yet still with no mention of his new mysterious friend. There was nothing about a fox, nor a woman clad in black upon a cherry steed. Could she be part of the ineffable plan? He closes the book and opens it again at the title page. Once more wouldn't hurt.

…

The early morning sun shines through the windows of the still silent bookstore. Had she fallen asleep in the next room? Does she even sleep? Aziraphale wonders as he takes off his reading glasses and places his hands flat on the desk, ready to stand. A soft tune of a guitar trickles into his eardrums, seemingly ignoring all obstacles, allowing the sound to be carried as clear as day. He pauses. Was that inside his bookshop? Surely not. He doesn't even own a guitar. His mind suddenly goes blank as he hears the mellifluous voice that followed the beginning riff and accompanies the gentle strum.

“Janet sits in her lonely room, Sewing a silken seam

Looking out on Carterhaugh, Among the roses green

And Janet sits in her lonely bower, Sewing a silken thread

And longs to be in Carterhaugh, Among the roses red"

“I do love the arts…” Aziraphale mumbles as he excuses himself for eavesdropping.

“She's let the seam fall at her heel, The needle to her toe

And she has gone to Carterhaugh, As fast as she can go

She hadn't pulled a rose, a rose, A rose but only one

When then appeared him, young Tam Lin, Says “Lady, let alone

What makes you pull the rose, the rose? What makes you break the tree?

What makes you come to Carterhaugh, Without the leave of me?””

“A rendition of the story Tam Lin!” Aziraphale gasped quietly, face brightening. He was fond of love stories. Especially those that involved humans and other beings.

““But Carterhaugh is not your own, Roses there are many

I'll come and go all as I please, And not ask leave of any"

And he has took her by the hand, Took her by the sleeve

And he has laid this lady down, Among the roses green

And he has took her by the arm, Took her by the hem

And he has laid this lady down, Among the roses red.”

The phone on Aziraphale's desk rings. He doesn't want to answer it and miss out on the melody that is filling the bookstore, however he also doesn't want the ringing to disturb the one singing, causing her to stop. He picks it up quickly and sighs with relief upon hearing Branwen continue.

“There's four and twenty ladies fair, Sewing at the silk

And Janet goes among them all, Her face as pale as milk

And four and twenty gentlemen, Playing at the chess

And Janet goes among them all, As green as any glass

Then up and spoke her father, He's spoken meek and mild

“Oh, alas, my daughter, I fear you go with child

And is it to a man of might, Or to a man of means

Or who among my gentlemen, Shall give the babe his name?””

“He didn't!” Aziraphale exclaims, once more quietly, forgetting he is holding the receiver in one hand. Placing it to his ear in a hurry, he hears the annoyed husky voice on the other line.

“It's me.”

Of course it was him. No one else calls or has the uncanny ability to sense and interrupt tender moments.

“Meet me at the third alternative rendezvous.”

““Oh, father, if I go with child, This much to you I'll tell

There's none among your gentlemen, That I would treat so well

And, father, if I go with child, I must bear the blame

There's none among your gentlemen, Shall give the babe his name””

****

“What is that? Have you got a radio on?” Crowley asks, pushing his phone closer to his ear.

“She's let the seam fall at her heel, The needle to her toe

She has gone to Carterhaugh, As fast as she can go

And she is down among the weeds, Down among the thorn

When then appeared Tam Lin again, Says, “Lady, pull no more

What makes you pull the poison rose? What makes you break the tree?

What makes you harm the little babe, That I have got with thee?”

“Oh I will pull the rose, Tam Lin, I will break the tree

But I'll not bear the little babe, That you have got with me-

If he were to a gentlemen, And not a wild shade

I'd rock him all the winter's night, And all the summer's day""

“What? Oh, yes. Something like that. Is that the old bandstand, the number 19 bus, or the British museum café?” Aziraphale asks as he peeks around the corner. Pulling the phone cord further, he manages only barely to spy her sitting on the seat by the window, dappled sun illuminating her face and making it look somewhat angelic. A stark contrast to the instrument she played, which seemed to be made of darkness itself.

“The bandstand, I'll be there in fifteen minutes.” Crowley responded, half listening to the musical bliss that trickled out of the earpiece and feeling oddly attacked by that last verse.

““Then take me back into your arms, If you my love would win

And hold me tight and fear me not, I'll be a gentlemen

But first I'll change all in your arms, Into a wild wolf

But hold me tight and fear me not, I am your own true love

And then I'll change all in your arms, Into a wild bear

But hold me tight and fear me not, I am your husband dear

And then I'll change all in your arms, Into a lion bold

But hold me tight and fear me not, And you will love your child""

There is a crash from the back of the store, interrupting the song, just as it reached the last verse and end of the story. Aziraphale had stretched the phone cord too far, causing it to fall from the table. Branwen stands and rushes to the back of the bookstore where she had left the angel to his reading. Turning the corner, she sees him crouched, picking up the old telephone.

_Are you okay?_

“Quite.” Does he tell her she has a wonderful singing voice? As if a thousand mythical sirens had joined a heavenly choir for god, herself? No, he can't tell her _that_. Aziraphale places the receiver back onto the base, unknowingly cutting the call.

Apparently the demon hadn't hung up quite yet, and had heard Branwen's voice on the other side, seconds before the line went dead.

_Azi?_

“Crowley called.”

_So you threw the phone? He does have that effect on people, I agree._

Aziraphale laughs lightly at her joke, before replaying the conversation in his head. “You… you gave me a pet name?”

 _Oh, do you not like it? It was that or bunny. I just thought, you know, we're friends and isn’t that what friends do…?_ Branwen's eyes shift to the floor, hiding the grin on her lips. She really did enjoy watching his reactions.

“No, no, I like it!” Aziraphale responds in a fluster, cheeks slightly tinged pink. Hearing her say that made him feel all fuzzy inside. “You can call me whatever you like… my sweet.” His last words were but a bashful whisper.

_So, what did he want?_

Aziraphale was confused for a moment. These conversations were just jumping around the place. “Oh! I need to go meet him.”

_I can drive you._

The angel eyed the helmet on the leather couch. “I don't know, dear…”

_Come now, it can't be worse than Crowley's driving, right? Don't you trust me?_

“Of course I do!” That answer was a little too quick, so Aziraphale began creating excuses, “we _have_ spent a while talking, and he's probably there already… and it _would_ be faster than a taxi…”

 _Great! Put this on._ Branwen frisbees him a bizarre ring.

“A halo?”

She chuckles. _Cute, right? I designed it especially for you._

He turns it over in his hands. How was this supposed to protect him, exactly?

Branwen grins at his confused yet intrigued expression. _Here, let me._ Standing now directly in front of Aziraphale, she takes the hollow circle from him and reaches up to place it onto his white-blonde hair.

He feels her fingers gently caress his scalp as she settles the halo in its place. It was only then that he realised it was a circlet.

_So soft…_

He thinks he hears her mumble as she strokes his hair once more. It was like patting a lamb, or an angora rabbit. Taking a step backward, she examines her work and notices the blissful look on his face. She bites the inside of her cheek to stop the grin from creeping onto her lips.

_Are you okay?_

“What?”

 _Your face is a little pink. Can angels get sick? Want me to check your temperature?_ Branwen asks, feigning innocence as she touches her forehead with his.

“W-What?! No, I'm quite fine!” Aziraphale scoots back in a rush, practically tripping over a stack of books.

She somehow manages to hold her laughter in. _Anyways, all you need to do is tap the side of the circlet and…_ Branwen reaches out and presses her finger to the cold item. Within seconds a helmet forms around his face, a perfect fit. It was the same colour as his coat, with a blue tinted visor, the same blue as his shirt. Small embossed golden angel wings placed on his right temple. _You can either tap the small wings, or just take the helmet off normally. Before you ask, yes, I can hear you when you talk. Any questions? No? Then we should better get going -and make sure to hold on tight._ She winks. He hadn't really thought of what she meant until he sat on the back of her bike.

Needing no directions, the cherry red motorbike sped along the dirt path toward the lone gazebo in a clearing surrounded by dead and/or dying trees. Standing there with his hands inside his pockets was none other than the serpent himself, _Crowley._ His eyes widened with surprise as the familiar bike skid to a stop at the bottom of the wooden stairs, yet narrowed a second later upon seeing his angelic friend's arms wrapped tightly around the rider’s waist. Maybe he was slyer than Crowley gave him credit.

Aziraphale dismounted somewhat shakily, whilst Branwen stayed on the bike, keeping it steady.

“Wasn't that fun!” he exclaimed enthusiastically as he tapped the small wing décor.

Once she knew Aziraphale was safely off the bike, Branwen flicked down her kickstand, dismounted, and pulled off her own helmet. Her hair blew tauntingly in the cool breeze as she cocked her hip to one side and placed her left hand on it, helmet now tucked under her right arm.

 _Hello Wild Shade._ She grinned challengingly. If she were to give one a nickname, why not the other? There was no deeper meaning to the title she gave, only that it seemed to suit him.

Crowley’s eyes bore into hers, noting they were no longer obstructed by tinted glass. He was glad that they once more shone with mischief and untold secrets, but annoyed that it seemed to be his friend that renewed the colour to her heterochromia retinas, obviously clearer and somehow brighter than before. His narrowed eyes followed her as she strode up the stairs toward him after Aziraphale.

“Well?” He sounded angry, but what else is new. “Any news?” The demon was trying to keep his eyes off of her, but he simply _couldn't._ Demons don't regret things, but he felt something _close_ to regret when he let her leave his home. And now she arrives with the angel, seemingly closer than ever.

“Um…” Aziraphale started hesitantly, “What-what kind of news would that be?” He nervously fiddled with his hands.

“Well, have you found the missing antichrist's name, address, and shoe size yet?”

The angel furrowed his brows slightly. “His shoe size? Why-why would I have his shoe size?”

_Size five._

They both look at her.

_What? Eleven year olds generally have size 4/5 shoe size. I thought that was common knowledge?_

Crowley shook his head exasperatingly, “It's a joke. I've got nothing either.” Branwen could feel his piercing eyes even from behind his dark shades. She knew that Aziraphale knew where the child was, and Aziraphale knew that she knew that he knew that she knew that he knew, but with Crowley eyeballing her, they thought it best not to send each other a quizzical glance.

“It's the great plan, Crowley.”

“Yeah, for the record…” Crowley started to pace around, and look toward the sky “great pustulant mangled bollocks to the Great _blasted_ Plan!”

“May you be forgiven.”

Crowley scoffed, “I won't be forgiven. Not ever. That's part of a demon’s job description,” he stopped pacing, “unforgivable. That's _what_ I am.”

Branwen frowned. She didn't think he was unforgivable. I mean, she had. And if he can't be forgiven, then someone like her had no chance.

“You were an angel once.” Aziraphale reminded him.

“That was a long time ago.” Crowley stated, changing the subject, “We find the boy, my agents can do it.”

“And then what? We eliminate him?”

Crowley pressed his lips into a thin line, “ _someone_ does. I’m not personally up for killing kids.”

Branwen put a hand to her chin, thinking. She _does_ want to end humanity, but…

“ _You're_ the demon. _I'm_ the nice one. I don't have to kill children.” Crowley opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted once more by Aziraphale, “if _you_ kill him, then the world gets a reprieve and heaven does not have blood on its hands-"

“-oh, no blood on _your_ hands? That's a bit holier-than-thou, isn't it?” Crowley scowled.

“I _am_ a great deal holier than thou. That's the whole point.”

The demon took a step closer to the angel, “ _you_ should kill the boy yourself. _Holy-ly_.”

Branwen heard Aziraphale gasp. “I am _not killing anybody_!”

This argument was getting nowhere, other than a broken friendship. Branwen sighed. This seemed important to them, and… wait. Was this what her contract was? Was ‘The Beginning’ the beginning of the apocalypse and her target was the Antichrist? That's one possibility.

_I'll do it._

“What?” Aziraphale spun around in shock and Crowley's eyes narrowed. Why would she offer such a thing?

“No. This is ridiculous, you're both ridiculous.” Crowley let's out a frustrated sigh. He wanted the apocalypse stopped, but he wasn't going to allow her to do it. “I don't even know why I'm still talking.”

“Well frankly, neither do I.” Aziraphale shot back.

Crowley ran a hand through his red hair before turning around. “Enough. I'm leaving.”

_Crowley._

He paused. Was he just going to leave her again? And with the angel? Did he really want to risk them getting even closer?

“There isn't anywhere to go.” Aziraphale piped up, seeing Crowley standing still.

He turns around and widens his arms as if asking for a large hug, “it’s a big universe, even if this all ends up in a burning puddle of goo, we can go off together… the three of us!”

“Go off together…? Listen to yourself.”

Branwen sighs once more. This was getting out of hand.

 _I gave you an out, just take it._ She interrupts as she steps between them, unable to stand the break up scene unfolding before her.

“And if we don’t?” Crowley asks, sounding like a teenager with attitude.

_Then you’re both idiots._

Aziraphale pouts a little. “Please understand my sweet, we don't want to taint your soul.”

“‘My sweet’?” Crowley scrunches up his nose and turns his gaze toward the angel. What exactly happened between those two?

A steadily growing hollow cackle exited her lips, causing both angel and demon to have mirroring startled expressions.

_Oh, you're serious? Honey, that ship sailed long ago._

“H-Honey?” Aziraphales face grew increasingly red, stark contrast to his white hair and light clothing.

“Honey?!” Crowley mimed with a scowl, ever apparent jealousy disguised thinly as disgust. Seriously, _what happened_ between those two?!

“Nevertheless…”Aziraphale started carefully, “we refuse.”

“Do we, though?” Crowley asked, eyebrow raised, “I mean, if _she_ does it-”

“I said, _we refuse._ ”

The demon raised his hands up in surrender, until an idea struck him like a bolt of lightning from the heavens.

“Okay then, okay then.” He says, scampering toward Aziraphale and passing Branwen, “what about that fake ceremony that I gave those men? We could somehow create a real one and summon something stronger than the Antichrist to stop Armageddon! You have a lot of books. I’m sure there’s something in one of those.”

… _What did you just say…?_

Aziraphale huffs, clearly unimpressed by what the demon had done, only now noticing the unreadable expression on Branwen’s clouded face and the aura of malice that was spreading outward as fast as an incoming tide.

“You remember angel, after that miracle you performed, I managed to tempt them into wanting more power. Very proud of that. Evened things out again.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were glued to Branwen and the darkness that rolled off her cloak and swirled in misty plumes around her. In his peripheral he could see the trees becoming twisted and gnarled, the sky growing increasingly black, and the small cracks that seemed to appear in the air. It was as if reality and time itself were being torn apart, calling upon the unending void and all it covets.

“Oh dear. Crowley… I do believe you should stop talking.” He wasn’t one hundred percent sure what was happening, but he had a pretty good idea.

It was only now that Crowley noticed the expression on the angel’s face and the unearthly chill that seeped through his jacket. The area lacked all bodiless noises, all that could be in the deathly quiet was the sound of them breathing.

_You! You did this to me?_

They didn’t know what had been done to her, or what she had gone through, but clearly it wasn’t anything good. They had their suspicions of her not being human, but they never knew she would be the _thing_ Crowley suggested they summoned.

“Crowley… what have you done…?”

“Me? I don’t know! It was an honest mistake! Who knew the humans would be smart enough to actually _summon_ something with that phony ritual. Look!” Crowley produces a piece of aged parchment and attempts to hand it to Aziraphale, “see, it’s not-”

His words were interrupted as he is struck in the chest with tremendous force by a blur of black, throwing him backward and outside of the bandstand. The cracks in the air grow larger as the shadows shift and vibrate. They move and cling to Branwen, as if she were a blackhole sucking them in. Wisps of inky black abyss, that could only be described as tentacles, sprout from her cloak and quiver from excitement as they slam the poor demon into one of the surrounding trees. As much time as it takes to blink, she was in front of him, pressing into him with a dagger to his neck. She oozed darkness and no amount of light could bring her back.

Aziraphale stared at the yellowed parchment he had picked up from the ground. Why did this look so familiar?

“Ah!” Snapping his fingers, a very large and ancient bound grimoire appeared in his hand. Blowing off the dust from the cover, he opened it carefully and began to scan the pages.

 ** _I_** _will_ **never** _forgive you._ Her voice was as cold as ice frozen with liquid nitrogen. Her eyes were now completely black, a void of nothingness. At least Hasturs onyx eyes had a certain malicious shine. Hers were just matt, engulfed in shadow.

“Déjà vu… a little help here?” Crowley choked out, as he glanced over pleadingly to his angelic friend. “You’re _reading_? At a time like this? _Really?_ I’m about to be discorporated, and you’re reading…!”

“Nonsense. She has the power to out right kill you.”

Aziraphale said factually as he quickly compared Crowley’s note to the book, ignoring his friend’s plight for a moment. This would be the only way to save him, so he better be fast. There, on the last page labelled ‘Myths and Legends’, were the sigils that Crowley had given the humans. The ritual may have been false, but the glyphs were very real, and very dangerous. He flipped the page, only to discover it had been torn.

A bone chilling laugh, obviously tainted with lunacy, echoed from her largely grinning mouth as she flung the demon through the air with but a wave of a hand. She was having fun playing with him and believed she should put him through the nightmare that they inflicted upon her. I mean, it was only fair.

“What’s this?” Aziraphale mumbled as he quelled the panic that began to rise. There, in the margin of the ripped parchment, was a small sketch of an animal skull. He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. Oh yes, he knew what that was. But she can’t be what he believed she was, could she? There was definitely light and love in her, he had felt it! And he was _sure_ he had sealed the last item away in a long forgotten buried tomb of the wind serpent Quetzacoatl. Aziraphale wracked his brain trying to remember _anything_ that may be useful. That's right. Many know of the myth of summoning, but not to destroy. However, he did. He had read many a book of the legend of The Shadow of Death, Death’s Shadow, or even Lady Death as some liked to call it. It then evolved into a Folktale, one that warned both children and adults of the dangers of being power hungry – very much a ‘be careful what you wish for’ tale. Amongst the tattered books he collected, he had read a battered old diary from some unknown author – someone who had been there when the original ritual took place. He at first thought it just a story, until today. It didn't say the _exact_ prerequisites, but it _did_ mention that no _mortal_ man could vanquish her. They, however, were not mortal men. He knew what he had to do, and he _wanted_ to save his friend, but he couldn't _kill_ her.

**_Y_ ** _ou certainly **love** your plants, **d** on’t you Crowley? **L** et’s see how much plants **love** you._

Branwen chuckled evilly as the gnarled tree he was pinned to by shadow twisted underneath him. Its rough bark scraped his exposed skin as the small branches penetrated his shoulder and stomach. He refused to cry out in pain, believing he deserved everything she threw at him.

**_N_ ** _asty wounds those. **Y** ou know, **h** umans can live for hours **w** ith a stomach wound before they bleed out **o** r get septicemia and die._

Crowley’s shattered shades slid off his pointed face and to the floor.

 ** _O_** _h? **W** ell you won’t be needing those_. She mumbled, treading on them and hearing the scrunch of breaking glass and metal under her heel.

A trickle of blood exits the corner of Crowley’s mouth as he snarls. Why is it that every time he causes mayhem, it backfires on him in some way?

Branwen wipes the blood from his mouth with her thumb. He flinches and shudders at the sensation.

 ** _H_** _mm?_ Noticing his reaction, she grins sadistically.

Dammit, no! She is literally in the process of killing him, he can’t get excited in a situation like this! He berates himself internally, unaware that her focus began to shift. Without warning, her head twitches to the side, toward the angel that had just miracled up a Din Banal’ras Summoner.

Aziraphale gasped in surprise as a shadow tentacle shot out and grasped him around the throat.

 ** _Tsk tsk tsk_** _, **n** aughty naughty. _Branwen said, shaking her head and turning her attention toward him. She sneered with disgust upon seeing the item in his palm. **_I_** _didn’t think even **you** would betray me. _She spoke in monotone, taking slow steps toward Aziraphale as if to build suspense. Crowley slid down the tree as she released him, and tightened her hold on the angel. Both item and book fell from his hand and rolled toward the steps of the bandstand and closer toward the semi-conscious demon.

Aziraphale noticed the shine in the corner of her eye as her face approached his. Although she seemed to be smiling a malicious grin topped with lunacy, her empty eyes were still the windows to her soul, and they were crying. A teardrop fell from her eyelash and trickled down her cheek like a miniature salty river.

A weak whispered voice echoed in his mind.

“Wait-!” The angel choked as he saw Crowley reach for the animal skull, but it was too late.

The unholy scream of the whistle echoed her own as she collapsed to the ground, the shadows that she always seemed to command aggressively rushed her from all sides as if they were rabid animals attacking their owner. They swirled around her like sharks circling prey, creating a thick barrier of inky black smoke and blocking Branwen from view. She let out one last tortured scream that was cut short as her screen exploded outward, dissipating suddenly, leaving nothing behind other than her beloved cloak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about Crowley *nervous laughter*  
> I've recently fallen ill and have art/crochet commissions! But will attempt another chapter asap.  
> 


	10. Awoken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale stumbles upon a ruin on the outskirts of Rome and in it a seemingly unconscious woman. Believing she is a sign from God and part of the ineffable plan, he refuses to let Crowley tempt this stranger and protects her like a mother hen. However, the woman has a weird habit - she disappears and reappears at the strangest times and in the weirdest places. Following a shadow that stalks both angel and demon, she may be the only one stopping them from being killed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've used the script book for the conversations, rather than what I was doing... which was watching then rewinding and typing everything said. This is definitely quicker, even if in the show they went off script a little.

“Miss, are you alright?”

“…!” The woman opens her mouth to respond, only to launch into a coughing fit, expelling everything that seemed to be obstructing her airways and lungs. Sand mixed with blood came out in large thick globs as her body lying on the stone slab screamed with pain and dehydration. Where is she, and who was this man in white standing over her? The last thing she remembered was being bound and tortured, a ripping sensation coupled with unimaginable agony, as if her very soul was being torn asunder and then…. Nothing. Just inky darkness.

“What year is it?” She croaked hoarsely whilst rising slowly and glancing around the heavily sand caked room with bleary eyes, hacking once more.

“41 A.D”

Her head weakly whipped back to the stranger as her eyes slowly began to focus. “The place I was bound is nonexistent in 41 A.D… where am I?” As if in answer to her question, an unknown breeze ruffled her long messy hair, the red fading to pure white at the tips shimmered slightly when the first raindrops hit her skin. There was no roof to this room, and the walls were of crumbling stone. She was in a ruin. Tilting her head back she opened her mouth, enjoying the refreshing liquid that trickled down her parched throat. Using both hands, she pushed back her hair and smiled. Much to her relief, she could feel her strength returning.

The stranger stared at the woman with curiousity, before shifting his gaze to the heavens. The sky was blue seconds prior, and now there were rainclouds. He didn’t miracle them there… was this a sign from God?

“You’re on the outskirts of Rome.” The man in white replied, eyes lowering once more to the mysterious woman. His next words were caught in his throat as before him the stranger and room were now clad in vivid green. Ferns, flowers, and saplings were sprouting from each nook and cranny, as if a lush forest undergrowth teleported to this exact vicinity. The evergreen cloak she donned made her almost invisible in her current surroundings, if it weren’t for the shafts of light that now split the sky.

“Thank you for unshackling me.” She smiled warmly as she rubbed her wrists lightly, only now noticing strange vein like scars etched up her arm. Maybe one of the men did that to her while she was unconscious? She bowed lightly, “I am indebted to you, kind sir.”

“Nonsense, no one in their right mind would just leave someone like that. Please, call me-"

“Aziraphale…”

The man in white was briefly shocked. “Yes, have we met?”

“No…” a look of confusion crossed her face. “Apologies, I’m…” She frowns. She didn’t know how, but she knew his identity, yet why couldn’t she remember her own? She pressed her palm to her forehead and shut her eyes. It’s not just her name. There’s an enormous gap, not so much in her memories, they were still _mostly_ intact but… somewhere. What was it? What was she missing? She shook her head and opened her eyes once more, brow furrowing.

Aziraphale peeked at her face. He had never seen irises of both steely blue and warm orange before. They were the oddest colour, as if the seasons of autumn and winter were incased in swirling glass prisms. How long had she been bound here? He wondered, recalling the very first thing she said to him. Intuition told him she was no mere mortal – and she didn’t _feel_ occult or ethereal… so what exactly _was_ she? Does she even know, herself? Was she part of the ineffable plan? A plethora of questions circled in his head, but first, she needed a moniker.

“What about Ariel?”

“What about her?” The woman seemed confused.

“Something to call you by, it means ‘Angel of Nature’.”

The stranger tilted her head a little, causing her now dry hair to tumble slightly over one shoulder. Wasn’t Ariel the youngest of the mermaids?

She parted her lips slightly to reply, “Velore.”

“Pardon?”

“I’ve heard it spoken before. It may be my name?”

“Very well. Velore, care to join me for a drink?” Aziraphale smiled at his new companion. He believed God had led him to her, and who’s to say he was incorrect? For some reason he was meant to find this woman and there was no way he was letting her out of his sight.

After a short while of walking and chatter, they arrived in Rome and made their way to a small establishment. Velore sat across from Aziraphale, plaiting her hair into a low sideswept braid as she watched him play a bizarre game with smooth white stones. A loud man in a black toga drew their attention.

“What have you got? Give me a jug of whatever you think is drinkable.”

The woman server plonked a large clay cup in front of the stranger. “Jug of house brown. Two sesterces.”

Upon finishing and securing the end of her braid tightly with a thin piece of leather sinew, Velore looked up as Aziraphale stood and addressed the man.

“Crawley-Crowley?”

She tilted her head. Crowley. Another familiar name. She scrunched her eyes in pain as her head throbs, a picture of an idiotic grinning face with yellow serpent eyes flashes across her thoughts.

“Well, fancy running into you here! Still a demon, then?”

“What kind of stupid question is that? ‘Still a demon?’ What else am I going to be? An aardvark?”

A soft trickling stream of laughter echoed into their eardrums as the woman in green approaches them both and hovers near Aziraphale.

“I wouldn’t think your tongue is long enough.” Velore chuckles, resting her right hand on the counter.

“And who is this curious creature?” The man named Crowley remarked, eyeing her with interest.

“Not someone who you can tempt, fiend.” Aziraphale seemed shocked by his own words. It came out a lot harsher than he intended. Taking no offence, the demon just leaned back on his stool with mirth.

A shadow in her peripheral caught Velore’s attention. In an alcove and barely visible skulked a figure that exuded energy similar to her own. Feeling eyes on them, it darted out and rounded the corner of the building, sticking to the awnings.

“Please excuse me.” She nodded to them both before pursuing the mysterious person, raising her hood mid step.

“And with such manners.” She thought she heard Crowley comment, a teasing grin audible in his voice.

Velore’s bare feet traversed the many sharp stones that littered the sand. The familiarity of the seemingly magnetic aura felt as though she were being pulled somewhat against her will to chase this fleeing figure. Focused and unaware of her surroundings, she rounded yet another corner. Dead end. Feet stopped and feeling bizarrely frustrated tipped with the tiniest bit of disappointment, Velore turned to return to her companion and was greeted by a circle of drawn swords and armoured men. The surface that lay solid beneath her sole and heel was now that of polished wood, and the landscape that had engulfed her vision only moments prior, had changed to a walled room with sconces and flickering torches. Judging from the general aesthetic, she gathered the year was roughly 537 A.D. give or take a few minutes to a year, but her somehow jumping through time didn’t seem that imperative right now. What _was_ however, was Velore’s current predicament – that being the many weapons all pointing at vital organs. Normally something like this wouldn’t phase a being such as her, but she wasn’t sure if what she was missing was her immortality and whether situations like this may in fact kill her. Painfully.

“Identify yourself!” The closest knight commanded, taking stance.

Velore knew she was indeed quicker and could very easily out run those that surrounded her on all sides and their heavy armour, yet a thought occurred to her - maybe she had lost her speed along with her perpetuity. After all, she couldn’t identify the void inside nor catch the skulker. Perhaps this was the exact place she had to be for answers. Like, for example, how she leapt through time with nary a blink nor thought. She had, of course, done it throughout her longevity, but it usually took a sigil or a meditative state. Taking one last glance around the room, Velore raised her hands, showing she meant no harm and proceeded to slide her fingers half into her hood, slowly lowering the material to reveal her face.

“Does this please you, Sir Knight?” She responded with a sly half smirk.

The knights began to falter slightly and mumble amongst each other. Somewhere further in the room, she swore she heard a barely audible gasp, overlapped by a manly chuckle.

“Lower thy weapons,” a booming voice commanded. The knights parted and a regal man with a crown stepped forward, “Fair Lady, how didst thou come to be upon mine table?”

Judging by the similar rumble of the throat, she concluded that this was the same man that had enjoyed her goad of the knight and although he _seemed_ to be a benevolent king, how was she going to explain something even _she_ didn’t know?

“Magic, sire!” A man with fluffy white-blonde hair pushed his way to the front of the huddle. “What else could it be, other than magic?” The man’s kind blue eyes drifted toward Velore, conveying an overwhelming mixture of disbelief, relief, flabbergasted, happiness, and a look that said ‘trust me, just go with it’.

“Magic? What proof is there-?” The knight from earlier was cut off by his Majesty.

“Other than her appearing from the air itself? That seems to be proof enough, is it not so?” The King says, stroking his well-kept beard in thought. Noting the furtive glances between the two, he continues, “Sir Aziraphale, knight of the table round, dost thou knowest this fair maiden?”

“Uh… yes! Yes, quite so!” His awkward smile changed within seconds to a beaming one, idea clearly striking him. It may be pure speculation, however if Velore was an unknown being from an unknown timestream, would it not be possible for her to know of this point in time in some sort of capacity? There’s no harm in trying, other than him being discorporated and her being killed in no doubt a gruesome manner, of course. “King Arthur,” he threw Velore a quick pointed look, “Sire, why not employ this woman as the court mage? Similar to that of an advisor.”

“An advisor? Sir Aziraphale, is that not why thou art amongst my knights?” King Arthur chortled lightly as he bumped the angel playfully. This in turn caused Aziraphale to stumble slightly, yet he managed to catch himself on the table before falling.

“You are quite right my Lord; however, I am talking of the supernatural and occult practices. I just think-”

“How knowest we that she can be trusted-” The knight from earlier is once again interrupted by his King.

“I trust my champion’s judgement, Sir Lancelot. He hath not yet steered me false. I assume that will not be a problem?”

“No, your Majesty.”

The woman in the evergreen cloak glanced back and forth between the two men. Were tensions high because Lancelot had laid with his Lord’s wife? Or was it another reason?

“What is thy name, Sorceress?”

King Arthur? So, that would make her…

“Merlin, sire.” Velore grasped the corners of her cloak and bowed deeply.

The King nodded in approval, “Very good. As thou art acquainted with Sir Aziraphale, thou shalt accompany him to challenge the Black Knight.”

Leaving no room to argue, Velore curtsied once more and followed her companion on his various errands before taking their leave on the expedition. No further words were spoken amongst them as they gathered their supplies and a horse from the stables. It was only when they were alone on the moor did Aziraphale open his mouth to speak.

“I believe it is safe to assume you are the same woman I found in Rome? I was quite worried when you disappeared.”

“You and I remember it quite differently; I believe the word you are looking for is ‘rescued’ or perhaps ‘freed’.” Velore corrected playfully before continuing, “…and you were?” She was touched. They had only just met at the time, yet he was concerned when she went missing. He truly was an angel.

“But of course! Where did you go?”

“I’m not… too sure, myself.”

The clink of Sir Aziraphale’s armour, the slight squelch sound of the moist underfoot, and the occasional huff of the steed she led by the reins were the only accompanying noises to their conversation that broke the deafening silence surrounding them. A bird call echoed eerily over the large expanse.

“I was quite surprised when you suddenly materialised.”

“You and me both.” Velore slowed her gait to a steady stop. At some point, they had entered a wooded area, yet somehow managed to stay on a clear path. “We’re here.”

Realising she was no longer following him, Aziraphale turned to face her, “I’m not doubting you dear, but… are you quite sure? I mean, the fog is so thick, and the visual is so poor.”

“I understand your incredulity, however…” Velore tilts her head slightly, as if listening to something in this place with little to no bodily noises, “the whispers from the trees and ground tell me so.”

“You have that ability?”

“Indeed. It’s inherent.” Velore smiled as she softly stroked the length of the horse’s head, from forelock to muzzle.

After watching the animal nicker and nuzzle against his friend, Aziraphale turned in the direction he believed to be forward and called into the heavy dank fog.

“Hello…?” He glanced around and squinted, trying to spy something within the swirling mist, “I, Sir Aziraphale of the table round, am here to speak to the Black Knight.”

A hunched figure in rags appeared before them, hobbling like some Igor-ish creature. It motioned for them to follow.

“Oh, right. Um… Hello… I…”

“Come, come.” It rasped, beckoning once more with one hand.

Aziraphale threw a trepidatious look over his shoulder toward his companion before following the ragged man cautiously. “I-I was hoping to meet the Black Knight?”

A figure with armour as dark as soot parted the fog with ease, much like a shark’s dorsal fin through treacherous water.

“You have sought the Black Knight, foolish one.” A deep and somewhat threatening voice resounded from behind the full faced helmet. “But you have found your death.”

“Is that you under there, Crawley?”

“ _Crow_ ley.” The knight lifted up the visor so that his yellow serpentine eyes could be seen.

Crowley? Again? Velore glanced around Aziraphale’s back. Well, yes, I suppose that makes sense. She had the feeling that much like Dracula and Van Helsing, where ever the angel was, the demon would surely be close by and vice versa.

“What on earth are you playing at?”

“It’s alright, lads. I know him. He’s alright.” Crowley addressed his minions behind him before returning attention to the angel. “I’m here spreading foment.”

“Is that a kind of porridge?”

There is a small giggle from behind, only audible to the man that guarded her.

“No! I’m, you know, fomenting dissent and discord. King Arthur’s spread a bit too much peace and tranquility in the land. So I’m here, you know… fomenting.”

“I’m, er, meant to be… fomenting… peace.”

“So, we’re both working very hard in damp places and just cancelling each other out?”

“Well, you could put it like that…” Aziraphale wrinkled his nose, “it is a bit damp!”

“Just a tad.” Velore mumbled, brushing away the strands of hair that clung to her face.

“Oh?” It was only now that Crowley noticed the woman in green a few meters behind the white knight. “And who’s your travelling companion? She looks awfully familiar, don’t you think?”

“Her name is Merlin, you don’t know her. She’s the Court Mage.”

“A mage, is she? Is that so?” Crowley’s eyes narrowed as he scanned Velore. The angel may insist that he didn’t know her, yet he recognised her face immediately. Had they met somewhere before? Someone he had tempted in the past, perhaps? Crowley took a step toward her to sate his curiousity, but was blocked by Aziraphale. The demon harrumphed in annoyance before shifting his slitted eyes back to the blue ones in front of him and continuing the conversation once more, not noticing the woman’s attention was held elsewhere already.

“Be easier if we’d both stayed home, and just sent messages back to our head offices saying we had done everything they asked for, wouldn’t it?”

Velore felt a shift in the air. From somewhere to her right in the abundance of fog and mossy trees, a sharp whistling noise penetrated her eardrums, known to her as the unmistakable sound of arrows parting the air. She could sense where they had been launched from and their trajectory, but what of their targets? Well, they were still bickering only meters away. Unknowing if she had any of her powers and unwilling to assume she did when she didn’t, Velore quickly grasped the hunk of metal attached to the saddle, yanked it off, and slid in front of those that continued to squabble.

“That’d be lying!”

“Eh, possibly. End result would be the same. We cancel each other out.”

Blissfully unaware that they had been a hit for an unknown marksman and paying the cloaked woman no heed, Velore proceeded to bend at the knee and hold the kite shield aloft, protecting them from the projectiles they clearly hadn’t heard.

“But my dear fellow… well, they’d check! Michael is a bit of a stickler. And you do not want to get Gabriel upset with you.”

The uninterrupted speech hinted that she had indeed arrived in time, however she heard no thunk of metal. The arrows that hit the solid object dissipated as if made of the fog itself.

“Oh, my lot have better things to do than verify compliance reports from Earth. As long as they get their paperwork, they seem happy enough. I mean, as long as you’re being seen to be doing _something_ now and again...”

Shadows in the trees danced eerily, attempting to mask the assassin that lay in wait. Feeling that bizarre magnetic pull once more, Velore threw the shield to the marshy ground and took chase into the misty woods that dripped with what she hoped was dew. Surprisingly, the dense fog did little to muffle the irate voices of the group she had left behind.

“No! Absolutely not! I am shocked that you would even imply such a thing! We are not even having this conversation! Not another word!”

Catching sight of the black cloak she had spied in Rome, Velore slipped between two trees and found herself in yet another different time, unable to stop herself from smacking into what seemed to be a wooden wall.


	11. Ophelia

“Oysters, oranges!”

A woman’s voice booms, drawing Velore out of a mildly dazed state. What she had believed to be a wooden wall, was in fact decking of a floor. It seemed she had somehow gone from vertical to horizontal within milliseconds and fallen onto the ground at speed, rather than run into it. How peculiar. Rearranging her position from sprawled to supine, she studied all that was in her field of vision… which happened to be very little. She did however feel relief upon seeing that her head had narrowly missed one of many wooden benches that sat huddled in rows, seemingly following the slight curve of the brick wall that stretched away from her. This room was either circular or oval, and if the echoing of the voices around her was anything to go by, she was only in a small section of a very large area with remarkable acoustics.

“Some grapes, please.”

A bizarre ringing noise filled the air as it crackled with energy. It sounded as if someone had flicked a coin, yet with an unknown vibration that gave Velore goosebumps. She seemed to be becoming attuned with the frequency of magic and surely this was a good sign.

“They look scrummy.”

The familiar voice caused her to bolt upright and pop her head over the wooden barrier. Much to her assumption, the area did in fact open to a very large and empty arena. However, this was ignored as her eyes immediately and naturally sought and found her friend’s figure. Needless to say, she was not expecting him to be in tights.

“To be - or not to be - that is the question.” A young man’s voice rung out in the practically desolate vast expanse.

Being able to see more than she could whilst laying on the floor, Velore’s eyes now began to scour her surroundings. The building she found herself in wasn’t overly remarkable, but was indeed circular. It had no roof covering its entirety, only that of the many wooden sections hugging the walls, like the one she had arrived in, and the balconies above her. What also had its own ceiling, was the very thing that dominated the view. This was a theatre, if the hefty stage and skinny male upon it was anything to go on, but what of its audience? Other than Aziraphale munching on some grapes cradled in a kerchief and the woman from earlier peddling fruit and oysters, there were only a few patrons and they all looked positively bored. The sole living thing that showed any interest, non-inclusive of the aforementioned angel or actor, was a rather depressed looking flamboyant fellow in a very deep, almost brown, red.

Taking a seat upon the barrier rather than a bench, Velore dangled her legs and swung them slightly in rhythm with the saloon-like doors that opened to her right. She was about to alert her long-lost companion to her presence, until she saw who had entered.

Through the wooden entryway strode a man in black puffy pantaloons, matching those of his sleeves. His long red hair swished in the breeze his movement created, as did the long goatee, looking as if a furry slug had attached itself and then died upon his chin. She muffled a laugh as she watched both theatrical performances play out in front of her.

“I thought you said we’d be inconspicuous here,” Crowley spoke with a hushed tone, looking around at all four of theatre goers then the empty rows, “blend into the crowds.”

He had somehow missed the fifth, that being the figure that wore a baffled expression. Surely her vivid evergreen cloak would stick out like a sore thumb among the drab clothing and dull atmosphere, making her noticeable. Perhaps she was the epitome of hiding within plain sight? Velore swung her legs a little once more in thought, listening to the drone of Hamlet and pondering the age-old question of why no one ever looks up. Yet in her current case however, it was behind.

“Well, that was the idea…” Aziraphale mumbles quietly. “Grape?”

“Ah, hang on. Ohh, it’s not one of Shakespeare’s gloomy ones, is it?” The demon tilted back his head dramatically and let out a groan, “no wonder nobody’s here.”

The maroon flamboyant man from earlier hurried towards them, shoulder length dark hair highlighting the fairly chunky hooped earring in his left earlobe. Velore tilted her head. To her, he looked like a pirate.

“Shh. It’s him.” Aziraphale shushes.

“Prithee, gentles. Um, might I request a small favour?” Shakespeare asked with wildly gesturing arms and hands, “uh, could you, in your role as the audience, give us more to work with?” He had phrased it as a question, yet his tone was of a patronising nature.

“You mean, like when the ghost of his father came on, and I shouted ‘He’s behind you!’” The angel beamed, happy to be part of the performance.

“Just so! That was jolly helpful. Made everyone on stage feel… appreciated. A bit more of that.” Shakespeare motioned to the young actor, “Good Master Burbage please, speak the lines trippingly.”

“I’m wasting my time up here.” ‘Hamlet’ replied through gritted teeth.

“Nooo! No, you’re very good!” Aziraphale insisted, “I love all the…” he motioned with his right hand, the one free of the spherical fruit and white material, “…the talking.”

Velore chuckled and crossed one leg over the other, palms still as flat as they could be on the top beam of the wooden barricade that stretched out from underneath her shapely bottom.

“And what does your friend think?”

Her angelic friend’s bright smile dropped instantly as he vehemently denied the claim. “Oh, he’s not my friend. We’ve never met before. We don’t know each other.”

“I think you should get on with the play.” Crowley responded, grinning as wide as a cheshire cat.

“Yes, Burbage. Please. From the top!”

Groans from those that lay around resounded, much to the actor’s dismay. He hesitated before continuing, “To be - or not to be - that is the question…”

“To be! I mean, not to be!” Aziraphale piped up with the aim of fulfilling the favour that was asked of him. “Come on Hamlet, buck up!” he trailed off after glancing at Crowley and seeing the grin upon his thin lips.

“Whether it is nobler in the mind to suffer…” Hamlet’s voice echoes in the background of their conversation.

“He’s very good, isn’t he?” Aziraphale whispered to the man beside him, yet it was not Crowley’s voice that responded.

“He took me by the wrist and held me hard;   
Then goes he to the length of all his arm,   
And, with his other hand thus o'er his brow,   
He falls to such perusal of my face   
As he would draw it. Long stay'd he so.   
At last, a little shaking of mine arm,   
And thrice his head thus waving up and down,   
He rais'd a sigh so piteous and profound   
As it did seem to shatter all his bulk   
And end his being. That done, he lets me go,   
And with his head over his shoulder turn'd   
He seem'd to find his way without his eyes,   
For out o' doors he went without their help   
And to the last bended their light on me.”

Both angel and demon spin in surprise, paying no mind to the vendor that now passed behind them. The woman in green directed her gaze upon both and grinned at their mismatched expressions.

“Ophelia.” Was the only word Velore uttered in greeting before silently slipping off the beam with ease.

“Age does not wither nor custom stale his infinite variety.”

Seemingly out of context, Velore raised an eyebrow at the impressed looking demon.

“Hm, I like that…” Shakespeare says, putting quill to parchment as he wandered away to secretly scribble down Crowley’s musings.

“Maybe she should be up there instead.” The fruit seller mumbled under her breath as she passed the man in maroon.

“You always seem so surprised to see me, Aziraphale.” Velore commented, stepping forward to face the two. She reached up and glided her finger tips over his Elizabethan ruff, smoothing some out of place neck ruffles. Aziraphale’s eyes grew wider as Crowley’s amused grin grew larger.

Before either could speak, they witnessed Velore’s head whip up to one of the balconies to their right and stare intently at the back where the natural light does not reach.

“What-”

Two swift pale hands exited the slits in her hooded mantle and clamped both sets of lips closed.

“Shh…”

All that can be heard is the continuous speech from Hamlet, surprisingly unfazed – or possibly too engrossed in reciting his lines to be aware of the scandalous behaviour that is taking place in front of him.

“I’ve noticed it before, and hoped I’ve been wrong…” Velore speaks slowly, concentration hardened on her usually gentle face and eyes still glued to the overhanging alcove, “…there is a shadow attached to you both.”

“myeph, yoo.” Crowley mumbled against her fingertips, somewhat surprised at how soft and warm they seemed to be.

“ _Not me_.” She responded, eyes only quickly flicking to his own. “There.”

It was finally then that both angel and demon witnessed something black jump from the balcony to the roof, yet it was too quick to see anything more than an indistinct blur.

“See you next era.” She winked slyly, removing her hands, plucking a grape, popping it in her mouth, and parkouring up the wall all in one swift motion.

“Interesting woman.” Crowley remarked as he touched his lips lightly with a long finger. He had definitely not met a female like _that_ before, and she _intrigued_ him.

“She’s definitely… full of surprises…” Aziraphale mumbled, still staring blankly at the space from where she disappeared.

Crowley side-glanced his friend. Other than the familiarity that the woman and Aziraphale seemed to share, he had an inkling that the one by his side knew more about this stranger than he was willing to divulge. The serpent grinned schemingly.

“She was rather good, wasn’t she? In both acting and whatever just happened there.” Crowley paused for maximum effect, “Hey, don’t you think she looks like that woman in Rome and Wessex?” He mentioned, feigning ignorance and keeping a close eye on his companion’s reaction. “You know, whatshername… Arthur’s sorceress.”

“Nonsense. That was eons ago, and it’s not as if Velore can somehow magically jump through time.” Realising what he had said, Aziraphale shuffled awkwardly and shoved a grape into his mouth to stop himself from revealing anything else.

“Oooh, so the woman’s name is Velore, is it? Not Merlin?”

“What?” Aziraphale answered in a fluster, barely having enough time to swallow his fruit. “Of course not, what on earth gave you that idea?”

“Well, you did. Just now.”

“I did no such thing. She clearly introduced herself as Ophelia.”

“You know as well as I do that Ophelia is the name of a character in the play.”

“She may just have the same name.”

“Right.” Crowley grins. “So, she really was a mage, then?”

“I’m speaking no more on this subject!” Aziraphale turns back toward the stage, a clear sign of the end of that conversation. Something he tended to do often.

Having left the boys behind, Velore jumps from roof to roof, eager not to let her quarry disappear once more. Closing in quickly, the black cloak was in reach. Why doesn’t the stranger she is pursuing try to attack her? This thought was only brief as she heard a spoken sentence in her mind, echoing as if on another plane and accompanied by a throbbing headache. 

**_I will never forgive you._ **

The tone was so dark, so _evil_ , and so filled with hatred. Velore shivered. The thing that disturbed her the most, was not the flashing pictures of a bloodied familiar red-haired demon she had received along with the pain, but that the voice sounded _exactly_ like her. It only took the green cloaked woman a brief moment of inattention to cause her to lose her footing and slip. As she plummeted to the hard ground, she managed to catch herself at the last moment on an overhang and lower herself onto the cobbled streets.

As her toe touched the cold stone, she realized once more that she was in a different era. The streets ran red with the blood of aristocrats and nobles alike, the guillotine causing a cheer from the observers with each chop. Upon spying the black figure now also on the ground, Velore darted through the congested marketplace. Her aim was never to lose sight of her target, even when they slipped through the crowded streets with ease as if they were made of liquid or the shadows themselves.

“Viva la French revolution,” Velore mumbled somewhat in disgust as she managed to avoid a stray rolling head that clearly missed the basket. Such a senseless waste of human life. And anyway, if they insisted on killing each other, couldn’t they at least murder their victims in the forest, so the animals and plants are fed? Blood and bone made excellent fertilizer.

Sliding past a stone wall, a thought occurred to her. If she was now in this time period, does that mean that her friends were also? Knowing Aziraphale’s fashion sense, she sincerely hoped not. Or at least hoped he had enough sense to not cross the border. With any luck she will see both him and Crowley soon.

-

Aziraphale pulls away from the short rotund man inspecting his neck, “please, no, dreadful mistake discorporating me, there’s paperwork to fill out when I get back, it’ll be a complete nightmare…”

The angel stutters as he glanced out the small dungeon window toward the guillotine. Wait, was that a flash of green? There was only one person he knew that wore such a vivid colour. He smiled despite his current situation, anticipation of meeting her again growing in his chest. He was quite fond of the enigma of a woman that seemed to appear with no warning, and disappear just as quickly. He often found himself wondering when he would see her again, not noticing the guillotine’s blade had frozen mid-drop along with the executioner in front of him.

“What, no Velore this time?” A voice asks from behind him, as if reading his thoughts.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale keeps his smile as he turns toward the familiar voice, “Oh good lord…”

His demonic friend leant on the iron bars of the cell casually, dressed as a stylish French peasant.

“She’s normally nearby somewhere, isn’t she? Surprised she isn’t here already.”

“She’s probably outside somewhere, waiting for us.” Aziraphale mutters, quickly glancing out the window hoping to spy the cloak once more. However, no such luck.

“Waiting for _us_? Somehow, I doubt that.” Although he had said that, the thought of the mysterious woman waiting for him tickled Crowley. Clearing his throat a little, he continued speaking to his friend, “What the deuce are you doing locked up in the Bastille? I thought you were opening a bookshop.”

-


	12. Start With Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Velore finally manages to catch the mysterious stranger stalking her friends... but what is the price?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music:
> 
> Perfect Day by Miriam Stockley
> 
> (It's a very nice song, please Spotify/listen to it!)

“Where on earth am I being led?” Velore wonders aloud as the crisp grass under her feet crunches silently with each step, once again within arms reach of the black cloaked figure. “Come on, just a little more!”

She is so close now, close enough to grasp the black material – or so she thinks. Her fingertips brush the lightly burnt velvet as the throbbing pain in her head envelopes her once more, yet stronger than before. Is this the way the figure was protecting itself? The closer she got the more her body screamed with the same agony and heat she felt during her entrapment. Unable to push on, Velore collapsed to her knees, and then shortly onto her front. As her eyes fluttered closed, another whispered sentence entered her mind, once more sounding as though it echoed from a crack in space.

**_Because monsters don't get to live happily ever after._ **

Why? Why did the voice, _her voice_ , sound so sad? And why did she see Aziraphale’s face twisted in anguish, guilt, and regret? Is what she was seeing a possible future, or has it already come to pass? Would she hurt her friends? No way. She couldn’t do such a thing. Did they _kill_ her? No. That cannot be. As the pain passed, she sat up slowly. A single choked sob rocked her breast and exited her slightly parted lips as she ran her fingers over her wet cheeks. Why was she crying?

“No more…” Velore whispers as she brushes her now disheveled hair away from her tear streaked face. Why must she partake of this seemingly never-ending game of cat and mouse? Was this fate, or someone’s sick joke? Regardless, she was _not_ going to put up with it any longer. It was time to take a sabbatical and enjoy the company of her angelic friends, fallen or otherwise. All she had to do was await their arrival.

Sitting politely upon her evergreen cloak, Velore watches the humans as they stroll past. It was clear to her she had arrived in St James’s Park, London, in the eighteenth century. Tilting her head up to the sky slightly and closing her eyes, she absorbed the dappled sunlight and the power that nature provided. The mortals paid her no heed, even when her being emitted a soft light, slowly fading to reveal a change in physical appearance. If she was going to stay here for a time, why not look the part? She smiled with renewed tranquility as a small breeze began to blow, carrying the soft trickle of music. Opening her mouth, she decided to share the peaceful atmosphere she felt with others. After all, they say happiness is contagious.

_“The rain has moved on”_

From somewhere a woman is heard singing beautifully, causing all within the park to smile contentedly. Unbeknownst to Velore, her singing was like a siren song and had put all mortals that heard it in a euphoric trancelike state until she finished the last verse.

“ _And left a new day”_

“That sounds somewhat familiar.” The man in beige mumbles to himself as he steps beside the one in black, tossing bread to the ducks that bobbed on the water. “It’s almost angelic.”

_“Nothing seems to move everything is still”_

“Look, I’ve been thinking. What if it all goes wrong? We’ve got a lot in common, you and me…”

_“It’s just a perfect day.”_

“We may have both started out as angels, but YOU are fallen.”

_“The shadows and light”_

“I didn’t really fall. I just, you know, sauntered vaguely downwards. I need a favour.”

_“That move with the wind”_

“We already have the agreement, Crowley. We stay out of each other’s way. Lend a hand when needed…”

_“Hidden violets grow splashed with summer spray”_

“This is something else. For if it all goes pear-shaped.”

“I like pears.”

_“Just another perfect day.”_

“If it all goes wrong. I want insurance.”

“…What?”

_“On the wild and misty hillside, Fear is nature’s warning”_

“I wrote it down. Walls have ears. Not walls. But trees have ears. Ducks have ears. Do ducks have ears? Must do. That’s how they hear other ducks.” Crowley slips his companion a small piece of folded paper. After opening it, Aziraphale answers without hesitation.

“Out of the question.”

“Why not?”

_“Hunger here is never far away.”_

“It would destroy you. I’m not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley.”

“ _On the wild and misty hillside, Fear is nature’s warning”_

“That’s not what I want it for. Just… insurance…”

“I’m not an idiot, Crowley. Do you know what trouble I’d get into if they knew I’d been fraternizing? It’s completely out of the question.”

_“Hunger here is never far away.”_

“Fraternizing?”

“Whatever you wish to call it. I do not think there is any point in discussing it further.”

_“And all of this world”_

“I have a lot of other people to fraternize with, angel.”

_“Is for children who play”_

“Of course you do.”

“I don’t need you.”

_“Days that never end always should remain”_

“The feeling is mutual, obviously.”

“Obviously.” Crowley mocks Aziraphale with a scowl.

_“Another perfect day.”_

“Oh?” Velore had finished her song and released the humans from their blissful daydream, just in time to witness both her friends in disagreement. Watching Aziraphale walk off with a frown and seeing Crowley’s dejected back, she chose to approach the demon silently and join him in staring at a slip of burning parchment floating upon the water.

Seeing green in his peripheral, Crowley is the first to speak.

“Wondered when you’d show up.”

“He’s just worried about you... you know he cares for you, in his own sort of in denial kind of way.”

Opening his mouth to disagree, the demon now turns to look at the woman to his right and was more than a little surprised. His train of thought left the station upon spying the well-dressed lady that was usually shrouded with mantle and mystery. Rather than the cloak she almost always donned, she wore the fashion for the era, albeit slightly more upper-class than the others. Her outfit looked to be in two parts, the top was a dark evergreen and gold floral brocade, the smooth alabaster of her bare neck and clavicle on view from the square cut collar etched with golden lining. The sleeves were mid-length and slightly bunched, pure lace almost disappearing against the paleness of her forearm. Her ground-length skirt hid her lack of shoes and was of the same high-quality silk yet a lighter shade to her upper, its hem mirroring the gold vine and leaf pattern of the shirts. 

Refusing to wear her hair coiffured as high as those that walked by, Velore’s red to white locks were curled and tucked into a neat mixture of bun and ringlets, small falls escaping and resting as if intended in front of her ears. Casting only a slight shadow over her face, a small hat sat decorated in fresh flowers and feathers as white as snow, matching that of the open lace parasol she rested delicately upon her shoulder.

“Nice dress.”

“Why thank you.” Velore chuckles lightly then smiles, she was pleased that she had managed to lift his spirit somewhat.

“I find it interesting that you waited for him to leave. He would have been delighted to see you like _that_.”

“Oh? And what made you think so? I may have just seen you all by your lonesome and wanted to speak with you.”

“Well, lucky me.”

“Would you prefer I summon him back?”

“And have him see that you are… what did he call it… ‘fraternising’ with me?”

“I can form a friendship with whomever I wish. You are not _my_ enemy – nor his. But of course, you knew that already… and so does he. Deep down, anyways.”

Velore hooks her free arm through his. Crowley grins.

“You really are a peculiar woman.”

“I take that as a compliment. Tea?”

Walking arm in arm with idle chatter, they stumble upon a secluded café nestled within a secretive garden.

“This one looks nice.” Velore commented, “I do love plants.”

“Is that so? I wouldn’t have guessed.” Crowley joked, however finding it interesting that they had yet another thing in common.

Other than the two of them, there was only one other woman in the establishment. Taking off his large coat and top hat and placing them on the wooden stand provided, the demon pulled the seat out for Velore before sitting down himself.

“How gentlemanly of you.” She chuckled, perching gracefully.

The serving woman took their order then returned just as quickly, placing their respective beverages upon the table with care.

As Velore sipped her tea, Crowley watched her with fascination. He had already gulped down his cup of scalding coffee, and was now interested in the alluring woman that sat beside him. It was now that he could finally get a proper look at her, without the angel guarding her like some mother hen or jealous boyfriend.

“Do you stare at Aziraphale while he eats, too?” She asked, causing him to jump a little in his seat.

“Nah, not at all.”

“I bet you do.” She smirks from behind the lip of the dainty teacup.

Crowley sees her eyes flick to the back of the store and hover there a little too long.

“It’s here again, isn’t it?”

“Mmm.” Velore takes another sip from her teacup, never taking her eyes off the back room, “I really wanted to stay this time.” She sighed in resignation as she placed her cup back on its matching saucer.

“You could.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t.” Every fiber in her being was screaming at her to catch the figure in black, even if she really did not want to. Was it destiny? Did she even believe in that?

Velore stood carefully as to not alert her target to her presence, and began to walk away from her table and companion. Suddenly she was struck with the feeling of unease. What was so different about this time? Glancing back, she saw Crowley at the door, about to take a step over the threshold.

Feeling a soft touch on his arm, he turned. It was only the quickest of moments, but it took his brain longer to process as Velore fell back onto her heel. His hand reached up and lightly touched the cheek that the woman had pecked. It was then he knew something was off.

“See you next time?” He managed to mumble, hoping his hunch was wrong. Yet upon spying her sad smile he knew that it would not be so. “What about Aziraphale?”

Velore turned her back as she began to walk away once more, “I know you’ll look after him.”

Leaving the green and entering a bustling street of central London, Velore took to the rooftops once more, shimmying out of and losing her hoops and petticoat. She watched as her folly darted from shadow to shadow, along the eaves and overhangs of buildings, taking nary a moment to think were they were headed. Once more it astounded Velore how people never even glanced up. Then again, she was one to talk, having eyes only for her prey, not what lay ahead of her nor where she currently was. How long had they been running for? She wasn’t sure. Even as she leapt onto the maroon bookstore’s roof.

Feeling a familiar presence, she paused her footing. Should she risk losing the fight now just to see her angelic friend? As much as she wanted to, she knew she couldn’t. Spying the dark figure zipping down an abandoned alley, she knew that it was a choice, albeit a difficult one. If she ever had an opportunity to catch her mouse, it would be now.

“I think you’ve caused enough trouble, don’t you?” Velore remarks, silently landing in front from above. “You’re not the only one who can be sneaky.”

Catching the figure roughly by the wrist, she yanks the stranger closer.

“Now, I’m not normally one to hurt others myself, however…” Ignoring the pulsing in her brain, her free hand grasps the hood tightly, “I think I can make an exception for someone who dared harm my… friends.”

The material fell down easily, finally showing the face of her enemy. It was a woman.

Velore’s fingertips dug tightly into the flesh of the one in her grasp. Arcs of electric jumped back and forth between their matching scars, now on view to show the written pact on her assailant’s forearm. Staring at this woman was like staring into a mirror – yet one with an altered reflection staring back at you.

Rather than her red and white hair, the strangers was as black as night. The eyes that stared back into hers with contempt was a swirling green and purple, rather than irises of orange and blue. The wind that now blew a gale disturbed not the rubbish from the surrounding dustbins, yet only the hair of the two in the miniature tornado causing the tight red bun to come undone. The woman’s aura that engulfed Velore was of a Machiavellian nature, not completely or inherently evil, yet still continued to attack the one the held on tight. Power flooded her veins as echoes of screams and memories she had never experienced swirled in the black smoke-like shadows that now surrounded them. Flashing pictures of an unlived time filled her vision, and even as she fell to her knees with voices and pain too loud to bear, she still refused to let go. The void she had felt was closing with each agony she endured. Soon, the woman that she had held was no where to be seen. With clouded mind, yet feeling whole, Velore collapsed on the cold dirt.


	13. Reaper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Apocalypse has started and Death meets an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry my updates have gotten so late lately! I just started Uni again! This chapter is a bit short also. I'm so busy now! T_T

The howling gale whips around the stormy sky, a man and woman cling to the archway around the small cottage door.

“Hold on!”

“I’m not an idiot!”

Their horizontal bodies are buffeted in the billowing wind like a flag on a pole, their voices almost drowned out by the wailing gusts. A small tree in the meadow yonder is ripped from the soft ground and spirals into the air.

“You don’t get tornadoes in England!”

“Prophecy 691. We do today! The wind should drop in a few seconds, then redouble. We’ll have less than a minute to get inside the house and under cover before it starts again. Got it?”

“I don’t bel- yeah, got it.”

The wind drops and the woman catches the man. They somehow manage to keep their footing as they hurtle into the house and slam the door behind them, not noticing the greener patch of lengthy grass dotted with small flowers beneath the tornados tail, nor the unconscious naked figure of a female that now lay on the aforementioned earthy floral bed.

The woman is awoken with a start. Her eyes flick open, pupils shrinking with the sudden influx of light. She jumps to her feet and takes stance, shadows encircling her hands and forming silhouettes of sharpened daggers, tendrils of darkness rolling off each one. Sensing no movement from humanoids in the general vicinity, she relaxes her guard and glances at the darkened ether. Although she was lucid, she was extremely disoriented. She didn’t know how she got here or where _here_ even was. She shuddered slightly, wisps of breeze caressing and dancing over her flesh like invisible fingers.

Only now realizing she was unclothed, she circled and swished both arms around her shoulders, manifesting a cloak that encased and settled around her body comfortably. The mantle itself was mottled green, the dark and light hues danced as if it were filtered sun in a shadowed glen. She shut her eyes and breathed in deeply. As the fresh, crisp breeze entered her lungs, her muddled thoughts and fast shifting memories began to clear. She now knew _who_ and _what_ she was.

As Branwen expelled her breath, she sensed an unusual influx of power from somewhere past the woodland that lay in front of her. The air itself seemed to vibrate and crackle, as a steadily growing ringing echoed in her mind. It’s time. She needs to be there. Taking a step forward, she paused. How did she not notice it before? There’s something different – something… off about her. The particles in the atmosphere shudder once more, drawing her out of her musings. This mystery will have to wait.

As she began to glide toward her destination, she recalled patches of things that had transpired thus far. She never would have guessed that the ritual had actually split her in two. Was it _intentional?_ Was just one glyph drawn badly, resulting in bizarre consequences? Or did Crowley actually fuck the whole thing up, accidentally? Crowley. The mere thought of the demon angered her. He still killed her, and it _hurt_. Her rage began to rise, even though a part of her understood why they betrayed her. They were trying to save each other, and she could not have been stopped.

Her mindless thoughts are interrupted by the sensation of her bare feet touching the tarmac. Glancing up, her extreme anger is immediately replaced by warmth upon spying the backs of those she held dear. It was only then she realized what was wrong. Why _she_ felt _wrong_. It wasn’t just the fact that she seemed to be incorporeal, which was a new experience for her, it was the cognisance that two entities now shared the one body like some sort of supernatural bi-polar. They were both her, yet the dual aspects refused to yield completely when the parts of her ‘soul’ joined.

YOU SHOULD NOT BE HERE.

Amidst the seemingly tense atmosphere, a deep, echoing voice resounded around the somewhat empty military airbase. Those that stood in front of the black cloaked figure were taken aback.

“Who is he speaking to?” Wensleydale and Newt ask in tandem. One whispered to Anathema, still peeking around a bunker, the other to his friends who stood beside him.

Anathema shakes her head, seeing no figure, only a confusing blob of an aura of an indiscernible colour. Neither human nor beast, light nor dark, there yet not.

Pepper and Brian shrug, whilst Adam turns his head and stares at the ghostly woman approaching Death. Both Aziraphale and Crowley now watch on as the spectre stands face to face with the horseman, mouthing words that they all cannot hear nor read on her lips. Only the young boy with the dog saw the smile that graced the spirits face for but a moment as she glanced toward the angel and demon.

VERY WELL.

Death opened wings of night, wings that were shapes cut through the matter of creation into the darkness beneath, in which distant lights glimmered, lights that may have been stars or may have been something entirely else. She knew that void, that realm. And she smiled.

Turning to face her companions, she quickly blows the angel and demon a kiss. They shared equal looks of confusion.

There is a thunderclap and then both Death and the mysterious woman were gone.

“Did you know her?” Aziraphale asks Crowley uncertainly.

“No… do you?”

“No…”

Death and the spirit appear in the temple, its floors caked with sand. The chanting echoed off the cavernous walls, even though the ritual took place many centuries ago.

YOU HAVE MADE MY JOB VERY BUSY, YET YOU DARE ASK FOR A FAVOUR?

**_Y_ ** _ou’re welcome. **A** nd I know how much it will **p** lease you to have _ **me** _owe_ **you** _._

YOU ARE AWARE OF THE RISKS YOU ARE TAKING. THE TIMELINES WILL CHANGE, MUCH LIKE HOW YOU HAVE CAUSED THEM TO ALREADY.

**_W_ ** _ho doesn’t love a good paradox?_

They stand over her bound body.

YOU MUST BE SURE OF YOUR DECISION. YOU HAVE ALREADY SEEN THAT THEY DO NOT REMEMBER YOU. YOU WERE NOT PRESENT IN THIS TIMELINE.

She grins as death touches a skeletal finger to her tangible sternum. Her voice echoed throughout the cavern as her visage flickered.

**_I_** _’ll_ **make** _them remember._


End file.
